


The Best of You and Me

by giddytf2



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baby, Banter, Bathing/Washing, Blame his hormones, Blood Loss, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Breastfeeding, But all the Geraskier Greatest Hits are in it, Childbirth, Communication Failure, Crying Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fanart, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Good Friend Eskel (The Witcher), Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Humor, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Sings, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Lactation Kink, M/M, Making Love, Male Lactation, Massage, Mpreg, Not Canon Compliant, OTP Feels, Original Character(s), POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Pregnant Sex, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and obmutescent witchers, graphic childbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 109,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: Today was, without a single doubt, the most peculiar day of Jaskier’s life.“I’m sorry,” he said to Yennefer, blinking up at her, very glad that he was seated on the side of the thin bed. “I think you just said that I’m pregnant.”The sorceress’s violet eyes harbored not an iota of humor. She crossed her arms under her ample bosom, and said, “You arepregnant.”“Pregnant with a magnificent bounty of well-crafted songs?”Her eyes narrowed. Under any other circumstances, he would have felt a mighty frisson of fear skittering down his spine. He was far too horrified of the words that rolled off her plump, red-painted lips next.“You are pregnant with ababy.”______________________________________In which Jaskier discovers that he's mysteriously pregnant but wants the baby, Geralt finally learns to use his words after twenty years, Yennefer is so done with two idiots in love and their communication problems, and Ciri gains a new family.(The main story iscompleteat 10 chapters, but will be updated with codas about Geralt and Jaskier and their life following the events of the main story. Also features my art!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 478
Kudos: 3369
Collections: Finished Fics I Love, The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Witcher fandom! Thanks to you and all your lovely art and stories, here I am to add another story to the ongoing party. I'm mainly familiar with The Witcher show on Netflix, but you don't even need to have watched it, or read any of the books, or played any of the games, to enjoy this story. Just watch the following Geraskier videos and scenes from the TV show on Youtube, and you're good to go:
> 
> [Geralt & Jaskier - Comedic Duo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dctEP1hXcPY), [Geralt & Jaskier - Humor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfNu36odicg), [Geralt meets Jaskier in Posada](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uU8whgqI_jo), [Geralt protects Jaskier from vengeful lord](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Swyf_D7yPE), [Jaskier gets attacked by a djinn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmxOT93A14k), [Yennefer threatens Jaskier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ccnWSCT70U) (nsfw), [Geralt blames Jaskier for all his burdens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uy4XNZX6gJw) (booo, Geralt!), [Geralt in the bathtub](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrxW0rGnGYU), [Geralt enters the tavern covered in selkiemore guts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0kyovrxhG8), and [Jaskier sits with Geralt on the mountain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-02axudEXF8).
> 
> Oh, and also--in this particular story, unlike in the TV show, Geralt and Jaskier didn't spend 10 years apart. The story is mostly canon-compliant up to episode 1x05, and diverges from canon from there onwards. But! All the Geraskier Greatest Hits from the series so far will show up in the story in one way or another. *grin* You'll see what I mean.
> 
> Soundtracks while writing this story:  
> [Her Sweet Kiss - Piano Instrumental by Grim Cat Piano](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhj5XbewqCA) (at 0.75 speed)  
> [Her Sweet Kiss - Piano Instrumental by The Human Chord](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGufHJfQYOM) (at 0.75 speed)  
> [Her Sweet Kiss - Jaskier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cW3zB_AGXIk)
> 
> I highly recommend listening to Jaskier singing the song first before reading, and noting the lyrics. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and enjoy! :)
> 
> P.S. Here are two visual aids of sad!Jaskier to kick things off:  
>   
> 

Today was, without a single doubt, the most peculiar day of Jaskier’s life.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Yennefer, blinking up at her, very glad that he was seated on the side of the thin bed. “I think you just said that I’m pregnant.”

The sorceress’s violet eyes harbored not an iota of humor. She crossed her arms under her ample bosom, and said, “You are _pregnant_.”

“Pregnant with a magnificent bounty of well-crafted songs?”

Her eyes narrowed. Under any other circumstances, he would have felt a mighty frisson of fear skittering down his spine. He was far too horrified of the words that rolled off her plump, red-painted lips next.

“You are pregnant with a _baby_.”

“A baby.”

Her eyes narrowed even more. A lower being would have combusted into flames, but Jaskier was apparently no ordinary man.

“Do you not know what a baby is, bard? Do I have to get Geralt to describe one to you with his scowls and grunts?”

“Yennefer. Human men don’t get pregnant.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Is this a prank? Is this revenge for me describing your hair as ‘black, drifting seaweed’ in at least three of my songs?”

Yennefer’s narrowed-eyed glare of doom remained. Jaskier flattened his trembling hands on his thighs.

“A baby. A baby is inside me.” His throat worked in a long, painful swallow. “Growing.”

“Yes. I’d say you’re at least three months along.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened wider. Then he snapped it shut, sucking in his lower lip.

Well, then. For once in his thirty-nine years of existence, he was at an absolute loss for words. He was grateful that Geralt was nowhere in the vicinity of this random town they’d stopped in, much less in their drab room in the town’s sole inn. What the ever loving fuck would the witcher think about _this?_

Geralt would probably snort at the absurdity. Then recoil in shock from Jaskier. Then stare at him with such _disgust_ as if he was—

As if he was one of the monsters Geralt hunted and killed for a living.

His hands balled up into fists on his thighs.

“Are you—are you _certain_ you’re not wrong? All you did was squint at me and wave your hands about—”

He wisely snapped his mouth shut again at the menacing growl that Yennefer aimed at him. Very Geralt-like, yes. Geralt would be proud.

_Please, oh merciful gods, please keep Geralt out there in the woods for a few hours more._

Of course, as usual for Jaskier, the gods didn’t give a toss what he wanted. The one warning he got was Yennefer glancing at the room’s closed door before it slammed open to reveal the witcher in his full, gruesome glory, stinking to high heavens from cockatrice blood, viscera, and things Jaskier didn’t want to identify.

Geralt didn’t blink once at the sight of Yennefer in the room. What did make Geralt’s large, amber eyes widen was—oh. Right. Jaskier had stripped off his doublet and opened up his undershirt for Yennefer to examine him with her magic.

“No! No, no, no, no, _no!_ ” He leapt to his feet, shaking his head frantically. “Geralt, this is _not_ what you think!”

“It most assuredly is not what _you_ think,” Yennefer muttered.

Jaskier pointed a forefinger at Geralt. “She—she was here looking for you!”

Geralt glanced at the sorceress, who was glowering yet again at Jaskier. Her lips parted, but before she could utter a word, Jaskier exclaimed, “She just wanted to say hello to you before she _went on her merry way_ because _nothing is wrong_ and _nobody_ has anything _growing in them!_ ”

Geralt stared at him, then at Yennefer, then at him again. Each second of the handsome witcher’s fierce regard felt like a searing century to him. He gazed instead at Yennefer, and whatever it was that she saw on his face, in his wide eyes stripped of their defenses, it dampened her ire.

He was scared. He was bloody terrified. If it wasn’t for the fact that Yennefer was standing in the way of the room’s windows, he would have already hurled himself through them just to avoid the next few excruciating minutes.

_Please don’t tell him, Yennefer. Please don’t._

_I don’t want to lose him._

And for once, for once, the gods listened to his rare prayer.

Yennefer let out a belabored sigh worthy of the white-haired witcher who stared at them both with a frown of perplexity and exasperation. A bulb of acrid blood dripped off the dip in Geralt’s chin onto his stained black armor.

“Like the bard said, I was passing through, and I learned you were here.”

“And now you’ve got to _go_. Yes? Right.” Jaskier wriggled the fingers of both hands in the air. “Yes, many exciting, sorceress-y things to do _faaaar_ away from here!”

It was a sign of how merciful the gods had abruptly become that Yennefer rolled her eyes instead of frying him on the spot in a Jaskier-shaped inferno. She might be Geralt’s ex-lover and friend now, and tolerated Jaskier much more these days, but that didn’t guarantee she wouldn’t transform him into a sentient, wrinkled ballsack if she felt like it. She was frighteningly sexy like that.

She stretched out her right arm and pressed the tips of her forefinger and middle finger to the center of Jaskier’s forehead. This wasn’t the first time she’d done this, so he was prepared to hear her voice inside his head.

{This isn’t over, Jaskier. I fully intend to find out how a human man managed to get himself pregnant without knowing it, and without magic of his own. You owe me one.}

He quickly nodded several times, jostling her fingers away from his head.

“Yes, yes, hello goodbye, it was so nice to see you again, ye most ravishing sorceress on the Continent.”

Oh, shit, Geralt was glaring at him. Geralt didn’t still have _those_ sort of feelings for her, did he? He’d said he didn’t, not for a long time.

Yennefer gave the witcher a farewell smile—and with a snap of her fingers and murmured indiscernible words, cleaned him from head to toe of the day’s brutal monster killing. Neither he or Jaskier had time to thank her for that before she opened a portal and strode through it, leaving them alone to confront each other.

“That was nice of her, wasn’t it.” Jaskier pivoted away from Geralt and retied his undershirt as fast as he could. His face burned with heat. “So very nice of her to visit for no other reason than to clean you right up and save us all those orens for the bath you’d needed—”

“Jaskier.”

He froze, his fingers clutching at his undershirt. No matter how many times Geralt said his name with that deep, gravelly voice, it never failed to send lightning-hot bolts of desire shooting through his body. Desire that he’d done his very best to conceal from Geralt, from the beginning of their friendship in a tavern in Posada a lifetime ago.

He wasn’t that fresh, young bard anymore who trailed after Geralt like a guileless puppy even after the witcher gut-punched him on the road out. He had more meat on his bones, more blood on his hands. There were tiny fine lines at the corners of his blue eyes. Individual strands of white hair that he’d pluck as soon as he caught them in the mirror. Scars scattered on his torso, his limbs, the result of being the bard companion of the White Wolf.

But with each passing day, every passing year, his desire—his _love_ —for Geralt of Rivia simply grew and grew, with no hope of ever vanishing and sparing him the inevitable heartbreak.

“Jaskier. What happened?”

Jaskier sucked in a lungful of cool breath. He heard a heavy tread behind him, then another. He darted to the windows before Geralt could come nearer, then flung them open in melodramatic fashion, making a show of enjoying the cool breeze that ruffled his hair and caressed his still-burning face.

“Nothing _happened_ , Geralt. I was just feeling—well, _hot_. And she—she popped out of nowhere through that portal of hers, and that was that.”

He could sense Geralt’s gaze on the back of his head, like twin arrows of fire burrowing into his skull. He wished that, just once, Geralt would look at him with eyes as warm as the afternoon sunlight upon his cheeks. Just once.

“Anyway, I should get us both some food.”

“ _Jaskier_ —”

“I know, I know, double portions for you.” He hurried past Geralt, allowing himself one genial slap on a broad, rock-solid chest that he still couldn’t help fantasizing about in the dark refuge of night. “Be right back.”

He pressed his right hand to his belly all the way down the stairs to the ground floor. He’d assumed the small bump of it was him gaining a bit of weight, but that hadn’t made any sense considering how much physical labor he and Geralt did in comparison to how scant their meals were. On some days, they were obliged to skip a bath so they could scrap together enough orens for a shared meal of bread and stew. Some days, they couldn’t afford a room in an inn at all, and had to make do with hares that Geralt caught in the woods. Or deer, if they were very lucky.

No, Yennefer wouldn’t lie to him about his—condition. The shock on her face after she’d used her magic to examine him had been genuine.

At the foot of the stairs, alone, Jaskier sucked in another breath. Swallowed past a lump in his throat, then sucked in another breath, one that shook his chest. He pressed his hand harder to his belly.

A baby was growing inside him. Had been for at least three months.

A baby. A helpless, little _baby_ , who needed security and stability, a sanctuary from monsters.

And Geralt did not know.

Geralt could not know.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

This was how Yennefer came to be in that room in that inn:

Three months before that, Jaskier had been sleeping in his bedroll next to Geralt’s in a mist-shrouded forest of alders and beeches, lying on his side, facing the ashes of their campfire. He hadn’t realized Geralt wasn’t asleep nor in his bedroll until he had jolted upright, awakened by inexplicable pain in his abdomen. He’d curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his waist. He’d groaned low when the pain magnified into a radiating force enveloping him from sternum to groin.

By Melitele’s generous arse, he’d never felt such torment, not even when the djinn in the lake near Rinde had attacked his throat and damn near killed him. He’d rocked back and forth in place. Toppled over onto his side. Dug his fingers into his lower belly—and felt things _moving_ inside him. As if his organs were being rearranged by invisible hands.

He’d been seconds away from screaming for Geralt, wherever the hell the witcher had gone.

But as swiftly as the pain had arrived, it receded from his body. It left him a panting, sweaty heap of shuddering limbs on his bedroll. He had no idea how long he’d sprawled there, gasping until he got his breathing under control, blinking tears out of his eyes.

Geralt hadn’t returned by the time he fell asleep again.

In the morning, Jaskier had woken up, watched Geralt packing up their things while Roach munched on some grass nearby, and decided that he’d suffered a mere nightmare. He’d lifted up the hem of his undershirt and saw nothing out of the ordinary about his belly: it was still flat and relatively unmarred, with its narrow trail of dark hair. Pressing his fingers on it had yielded nothing other than Geralt raising grey eyebrows at him. Probably judging his lack of bulging, rippled muscles.

Well, not everyone could be as burly and tan and _well-proportioned_ as Geralt. It wasn’t his fault he was lean and pale and _soft_.

By the day after that mere nightmare, Jaskier had forgotten all about it—until two months and three weeks later. By that time, he’d had multiple baffling bouts of vomiting that occurred most often in the mornings, sometimes in the afternoons. He’d noticed that his breeches were more taut around his waist. His belly had taken upon itself to bulge while the rest of him hadn’t, and not in the muscular, seductive way.

He’d made sure that Geralt was busy bathing himself in the stream and not watching him before he sat on the ground behind a bush, opened his doublet, and lifted up his undershirt. He’d poked at his lower belly, frowning at its surprising firmness. It seemed it wasn’t fat that was changing the shape of his abdomen.

So what was it?

Was it some magic spell? Did someone sic another djinn on him? Did someone _curse_ him with some fiendish illness that was causing him to vomit and his internal organs to swell? Until he burst in a shower of blood and guts?

Had that nightmare been real, after all?

Four days after that, after a truly awful bout of spewing what felt like all his meals from the past decade, Jaskier had given in to the temptation to use the summoning amulet that Yennefer had gifted Geralt. She’d never specified that only Geralt could use the brilliant purple stone to summon her for aid. He’d placed his bet on her ignoring him once she heard his voice. He’d thought he was right when he’d received no response.

Three days later, in that drab room while Geralt was returning to the inn after killing the cockatrice, a portal had opened next to the bed where Jaskier sat writing new lyrics into his leather-bound notebook. He’d jumped off the bed with a squawk, hugging his notebook to his chest.

Then he’d grabbed at his belly.

Yennefer had raised one shapely eyebrow at him.

It’d been a simple matter of saying, “I think there’s something very, very wrong with my insides, and I don’t want to burst in a shower of blood and guts all over Geralt,” for her to command him to sit back on the bed and expose his belly to her.

When he’d said that the shock on her face had been genuine, it had been an understatement. Her face had gone pallid in an instant. She’d gasped, and stepped back from him, her open hands still raised. Oh, he’d felt like vomiting another decade’s worth of meals there and then, imagining the worst: his intestines were writhing snakes, or some cruel monster had somehow laid its eggs inside him and its babies were going to eat him from the inside out, or—or he _was_ actually getting pot-bellied, and dear gods, wasn’t he just _mortified_ that he’d summoned Yennefer to confirm that?

Then she’d said, “Jaskier, how the fuck are you pregnant?”

Five hours later, while Geralt slumbered next to him on the thin bed that scarcely supported the both of them, his insane mind had thought, _wouldn’t it be nice if the baby was Geralt’s?_

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

It wasn’t like it was the first time Jaskier had imagined such foolish things about Geralt. Twenty years of being head over heels in secret love with the witcher had its ways of ingraining certain habits into him that reined in said foolish things. Like composing song after song in his head about Geralt’s very lovely bottom, but never singing the words aloud. Like babbling about everything except his desire and love for Geralt that pounded in flawless tempo with his persistent heart, hiding the momentous behind mundanity. Like waiting for Geralt to fall asleep first, or to be away on yet another dangerous hunt, so he could pull out his cock and bring himself off to the inexorable, vibrant images of the witcher that his mind stored by the thousands.

He could control habits. He could control his fantasies. But he couldn’t control his dreams at night.

It was why he cherished those dreams of Geralt most.

Tonight, he was dreaming that Geralt was fucking him into the bed with zealous thrusts that he felt all the way up his throat. Geralt’s long, white hair was untied, forming a curtain that shielded them from the rest of the world. Jaskier delighted in being held down by the wrists, and so Geralt had captured both wrists in one large fire-brand of a hand. He’d seen Geralt’s prodigious cock numerous times by now in reality, and so the cock that filled him up so good and pummeled shameless moans out of his open mouth was as accurate as it could get.

Geralt of his dreams gazed at him with eyes filled with the replenishing heat of a summer sun. Geralt of his dreams basked in the flexibility of his lean body, in the tightness of his rounded arse, in his whimpers every time that perfect cock-head dragged across that sweet spot inside him. Geralt of his dreams smiled at him when he rasped his name and burbled his desire and love without fear, without hesitation.

Geralt of his dreams loved him in return.

He couldn’t control his dreams at night, and it was why they always ended long before he wanted them to, before he could hear Geralt say those precious few words to him with that deep, gravelly voice. Tonight was no different.

When his eyes flickered open in the semi-darkness—in another room in another inn in another town—he saw that Geralt was sound asleep, lying on his side and turned away from him. He watched that broad, sturdy back rise and fall with slow, steady breaths. A witcher’s heart had a languid beat in contrast to a human’s heart, and he’d always wondered what it would take to quicken it.

A knife to the throat? A wyvern swooping down for the fatal blow? A swarm of alghouls descending on a village? A ravishing sorceress with the ambitions of an abiding goddess?

It was so silly of Jaskier, just so silly, to think that the mere press of his hand to Geralt’s back could do what terrifying beasts, extreme violence, or formidable women couldn’t.

He did it anyway.

Geralt slept on.

What was Jaskier going to do, when he couldn’t conceal the expanding bump of his belly anymore? What was he going to say, when Geralt demanded an explanation for what should have been an impossibility? What could he _do_ , that would stop him from losing Geralt?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t have much time left.

His hand rose and fell with Geralt’s back. He listened to Geralt breathing, to his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. He let out a quavering breath.

And something crawled above the blanket onto his right shin.

“Ugh!”

He kicked at it with his right foot. He expected the rankled squeak of a rat, after he’d seen more than a few scuttling around in the tavern downstairs earlier today. Expected the thud of it bouncing off the wooden floor.

A guttural snarl reverberated around the room. A snarl that no rat could vocalize. Whatever it was, it sounded almost _human_.

There wasn’t enough moonlight through the windows for him to see it. It was crawling onto the bed, onto his leg again. Its _claws_ jabbed through the blanket into his skin and—oh gods, it reeked like decayed flesh and rotten blood, like hatred and malice. This was no rat. This was a devil, a _monster_ , and it was snarling at him and its fangs glinted and, oh fuck, they were so long and _sharp_ —

He had no shame whatsoever about shrieking Geralt’s name. In the span of a panicked breath, Geralt was awake with his trusty sword in hand, heightened vision zeroing in on the diabolical creature. Jaskier saw Geralt’s brows furrow in puzzlement, but before he could shriek again or speak, Geralt shoved him off the bed.

He landed hard on his arse. Rolled across the floor from the force of Geralt’s shove until he collided with the wall. He scrambled onto his hands and knees, then to the farthest corner of the room, huddling against the wall.

This was what Geralt taught him to do in the event of a direct attack in close quarters: retreat from the area, as far as possible from Geralt so the witcher was free to assail the enemy while not worrying about harming him, and stay the hell out of the way until the enemy was dead. It was one thing to help Geralt in a physical battle when they were in the forest or on the road. It was another to be trapped in a room where Geralt had next to no space to swing his intimidating sword without wrecking everything in it, including fragile humans.

The monster’s shrill screams were horrendous. Jaskier pressed his palms over his ears, but that did nothing to block them out. The monster didn’t just sound human—it sounded like a wailing _baby_ being savagely murdered. Geralt hacked at it over and over, his white teeth bared in a rictus of revulsion, growling through them. Under the moonlight, the creature’s blood that splattered Geralt’s rugged face and linen undershirt was inky black. Under the moonlight, Geralt’s loose hair shone.

His wide amber eyes were ablaze when they alighted on Jaskier.

The monster wasn’t screaming anymore.

Jaskier still couldn’t see what it was. Geralt’s shadow kept it in darkness on the splintered wreckage that was once the bed.

“Is it—is it dead?”

Geralt grunted, then replied, “Yes.”

Jaskier pushed himself up to his feet. He leaned against the wall, and ignored the trembling of his hands, his insides. He pressed his right hand to his belly.

“What is it? It stank horribly.”

It still did. Geralt didn’t answer him. Geralt turned his head to glance at the shut door of their room. Seconds later, Jaskier heard thunderous footsteps approaching. The door opened with a bang, and the innkeeper, a corpulent, scraggly-bearded man, stomped in with a lit candle in hand.

“What’s going on here?! What are you _doing?!_ You’re scaring the other guests—”

The innkeeper sputtered into silence when he saw the wreckage of the bed. His jowled face turned ashen as he stared at it, at the _thing_ on it. He staggered back. Made wobbly signs to ward off evil with his free hand, although Jaskier doubted that any hand gestures could surpass Geralt in the dominion of monster-slaying.

“By Kreve, wh-what is that?!” the innkeeper bellowed. “Is it dead, witcher?!”

Geralt released a weighty sigh. Jaskier glanced at him to find Geralt already gazing at him, as if the innkeeper wasn’t present.

“It’s a botchling,” Geralt said, and Jaskier knew he was replying him and not the innkeeper. “A monster born of a dead, unwanted baby discarded without proper burial.”

Jaskier heard the innkeeper gasp in horror, and saw from the corner of his eye the innkeeper making more signs to ward off evil. With the illumination of the innkeeper’s lit candle, Jaskier finally saw how the botchling appeared—or at least, how it appeared after Geralt chopped it to gory pieces.

It did look like a human baby, a bloated version of one. A putrid, twisted perversion, with dark-veined skin, elongated arms and a hunched back. Rows and rows of long, sharp fangs in jaws split apart by Geralt’s sword. A black, distended tongue longer than its head, and little, chubby fingers tipped with claws.

Claws that had touched his leg.

Claws that had been so close to ripping into his flesh.

“Hmm. It must have been very desperate for sustenance,” Geralt said.

Jaskier stared at him. The wall behind him was all that kept him standing upright, while he watched the witcher wipe the filthy blade of his sword with a scrap of blanket.

“A botchling feeds on the blood of pregnant women,” Geralt also said. “Once it sinks its fangs into its victim, its mad hunger ensures that it won’t stop feeding. Until the mother and baby are drained dry and dead.”

Jaskier’s hand convulsed against his belly. Bile surged up his throat.

“We all do what we can to survive.” Geralt dropped the soiled cloth to the floor, inspecting the honed edge of his sword. “Desperate times call for desperate choices.”

The innkeeper gushed his thanks to Geralt, declaring a free breakfast for the dauntless White Wolf and his bard in appreciation of ridding his inn of such a demonic creature.

Geralt grunted, then sheathed his sword back in its scabbard.

Jaskier, wrapping his arms around his growing belly—his growing baby that almost _died_ —hunched forward and spewed up the roasted chicken and potatoes he’d eaten for dinner.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Four months after he mysteriously became pregnant, Jaskier’s time ran out.

It hadn’t happened in a hailstorm of fire, or in an obliterating flood, or in a grim monster attack. It’d happened while he and Geralt traveled on a road flanked by steep hills, with a comment stated in the witcher’s unique brand of tact.

“Jaskier, you’re getting fat.”

Geralt hadn’t even glanced at him when he’d said it, sitting atop Roach. Bloody good thing, too, for Jaskier’s eyes had welled up for a totally different reason, and he had to blink them hard, square his shoulders, then paste on a big, toothless smile.

He didn’t recall what his reply to Geralt had been, only that Geralt’s lips had quirked up. The journey into Gulet and to the most prominent inn at its core days later was a hazy memory. He’d gotten the room for them, but Geralt paid for it. Geralt was going to meet with the mayor later that afternoon, to learn more details about the contract the mayor was offering. A lot of orens were to be had if Geralt accepted this job.

He wasn’t sticking around long enough to find out if Geralt did.

He really was a coward, to end his friendship with Geralt as the witcher was about to head out.

He didn’t know what he said, exactly, or what his face looked like to Geralt. Something about returning to Oxenfurt because he missed the colorful, wooden city and its illustrious Academy. Something about staying there for a while, and perhaps becoming a lecturer in the Faculty of Trouvereship and Poetry. It would be nice to settle down in one location for a change. To have a place to call home, and employment that earned him a regular income.

Was he going to see Geralt again?

Well, Geralt could always visit him there, yes? Geralt would have a place to stay there, with him. Geralt could stay and attend a lecture or two. Perhaps on astronomy. He could envision Geralt there in one of the vast, sunlit lecture halls, garnering attention and awe from other students with his striking presence, his alluring features. And perhaps after the lecture was over, he and Geralt would have lunch together in the dining hall, bantering over their hearty meal.

But of course, in Jaskier’s overactive imagination, Geralt gazed at him with crinkled amber eyes that were warmer than the summer sun, and entwined their fingers on the table for all to see. In Jaskier’s imagination where anything was possible, Geralt of Rivia was heads over heels in unreserved love with him.

In cold, merciless reality, Geralt was staring at him with a face as blank as the ice over the Pontar in harshest winter. He felt the chill of it to the marrow, but he stood where he was, gazing over Geralt’s brawny shoulder.

_We all do what we can to survive._

_Desperate times call for desperate choices._

He had to do this. He had to, for Geralt’s sake. For the sake of the baby growing inside him. There was no telling how Geralt would react towards it, and despite still being clueless about how the baby came to be, Jaskier—treasured it. He didn’t know why the gods chose him of all people on this forsaken Continent, or why now when he was almost forty years old, but what he knew was, this was _his_ baby.

He wanted it, every minuscule part of it. He loved it, with all his heart and soul, the way his parents of noble blood had never done for him.

And there was no place in a witcher’s violent, volatile life for a baby.

“So.”

Jaskier forced himself to look Geralt in the eye, and the sneer that contorted Geralt’s gorgeous face was far worse than that blank, icy expression.

“You have tired of me,” Geralt growled. “And of my life.”

Jaskier gritted his teeth. The alternative was to allow his lower jaw to quiver, and that would lead to other portions of his face quivering, other portions of it welling up and spilling hot.

_Of course I haven’t. I will never tire of you._

_I would walk by your side for as long as you’ll have me, to the edges of the world, and beyond._

But he couldn’t. Not anymore.

His jaws ached. The back of his eyes stung, and his fingernails dug grooves into his palms, and his lips pressed into a thin line. In an impressive performance that defied his natural compulsion to unleash a torrent of words from his gob, he said nothing.

Geralt’s amber eyes narrowed in a contemptuous glower.

“Do what you want. Go where you want.” Geralt swiveled away and stomped towards the shut door of the room. “I don’t give a fuck.”

It took every shred of Jaskier’s willpower not to dash after Geralt, to grab one of those substantial biceps, and beg his monster-slaying champion, his muse, his best friend—the _true love of his life_ —to stay. To listen to the truth, and _stay_.

He heard the door swing open on creaky hinges.

Heard Geralt’s heavy treads on hardwood floor become fainter and fainter.

Heard the door swing back into its frame.

With all his experience of composing poetry, songs and stories, Jaskier had never foreseen that the sound of his whole world ending was a door clicking shut.

He stood there for what were probably fleeting minutes but felt like an unforgiving eternity. He couldn’t afford to crumble, not yet. He needed to be far away from here, from Geralt who’d just cleaved him out of his life like he’d cleaved the bold, handsome witcher out of his, before he could.

He blinked hard, then again, and again. His eyes refused to clear. His throat had constricted to a pinhole, and oh, there was that familiar congested feeling high up in his nose, and there was that headache that signaled the beginning of a monumental crying jag. Worst of all was the bleak void within him, where his rhymes and songs should be, but weren’t.

Worst of all was knowing, at last, the agony he’d sung so often about in his more maudlin, romantic songs: the splintering of that delicate, hopeful thing in the left side of his chest into irreparable shards.

_Oh, there it was, that inevitable heartbreak twenty years in the making._

He pressed the heels of his hands to brimming, hot eyes.

No.

 _No._ Not now.

He had to get away from here. As fast as he could, before Geralt came back.

But how?

He tottered over to the sole bed in the room. He sat down hard on it. Pressed a shaking hand over his mouth, and tried not to vacate the contents of his stomach all over the floor.

It would take him months to walk to Oxenfurt, and that was if the terrain and weather cooperated with him on most days—and if he wasn’t pregnant. Traveling on horseback was out of the question. In a month, none of his clothes would be able to accommodate his expanding waist, much less obscure his swelling belly. In a few months, if he still hadn’t reached Oxenfurt, he’d have to find a safe, private place to hole up. A solitary place, where no one else would see him—where he’d have to give birth alone and without any help.

He covered his face with both hands, and ignored his palms becoming wet. He sucked in a ragged breath. Then another.

Oh, Melitele, he couldn’t do this alone. He knew _nothing_ about pregnancy or birth. Anything could go wrong, and that was for a woman, whose body was naturally molded to bear children. He didn’t even know if he’d already caused permanent harm to his baby without realizing it, in the months before he learned what his condition was.

Who could he go to now for help? Who did he know, who had any inkling about childbearing, and was willing to help him?

A hoarse parody of a laugh erupted from him when the answer came to him.

Of course. Of course it had to be _her._

He swiped his right hand over his face. Stood up, then gathered his darling lute and meager possessions from the corner of the room. Geralt’s things were in a pile at the foot of the bed, but Jaskier knew which leather satchel contained the summoning amulet.

He knelt on the floor and dug it out. Clenched his hand around the brilliant purple stone set into burnished silver.

Wasn’t it his shitty luck, that the one person he could call upon now was the ex-lover of the man he loved so damn much?

“Yennefer,” he croaked. “Please.”

He placed his bet on her ignoring him this time.

This time, he was wrong again, and he was grateful for the brief minutes he had to compose himself before the portal opened behind him. He returned the summoning amulet to its place in Geralt’s satchel. His legs were steady as he straightened up and turned around to face her.

He didn’t know what to say, or what his face looked like to her. He returned her stare, and whatever it was that she saw in his sore eyes, stripped completely of their defenses, it softened her violet ones, just the slightest.

He was terrified. He was fucking lacerated inside from one side of his ribcage to the other. He was a bard whose rhymes and songs had abandoned him with heavy treads that dwindled into glacial silence.

But he had to do this.

His baby needed him, and Yennefer’s rare magnanimity.

They stared at each other for several seconds more. She said nothing to him. She swiveled and strode back through the portal.

It remained open in her wake.

Jaskier’s hand tightened on the leather strap of his rucksack. He breathed in, and his lungs didn’t shudder, and his legs didn’t buckle as he strode through the portal after the sorceress.

He didn’t look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos! ❤️ I appreciate each and every one of them. Y'all are wonderful and made me feel so welcomed, and I hope you'll also enjoy the rest of the story. 
> 
> I have a feeling many people will want to give Jaskier a hug after this update. Poor baby bard. But I also think those who like a Jaskier and Yennefer friendship will enjoy this too!
> 
> P.S. Jaskier and Yennefer's friendship in one image:  
> 

Yennefer refused to teleport Jaskier to Oxenfurt.

“No,” she said, her eyes hooded, apathy imbuing every inch of her bewitching face.

Jaskier swallowed hard, but returned her ruthless stare.

“Am I a prisoner here, in your luxurious manor that you _acquired_ from its previous unfortunate master?”

He prided himself on his voice being firm and not all exposing how scared witless he still was of her. He was a smart man—only an imbecile would think of her as anything other than cut-throat and petrifying.

He reared back when she leaned forward into his personal space, her eyes wide and unblinking.

“You don’t actually wish to go to Oxenfurt. Look me in the eye, and tell me I’m wrong, bard.”

He swallowed hard a second time. His eyelids flickered.

_No, I wish I could go back to Geralt. I wish I could tell him the truth, and not fear that he’ll kill my baby. I wish I could roll back the relentless wheels of time, to the day I met him in that tavern in Posada, and walk by his side for another twenty years._

_I wish Geralt looked at me, and saw me as I am. I wish he loved me as much as I love him._

_I wish he loved me at all._

He averted his face from Yennefer’s incisive eyes. The action bared his pale neck above the high collar of his doublet to her. He felt more than heard her smug huff against his cheek, and he had to hold in his breath to not release it as a wobbly sigh of relief when she stepped back, her head high.

“You will stay here,” she commanded. “This is your room, but you’re free to explore the manor and its grounds except my rooms.”

He was tempted to snap at her for not giving him a choice or say in the matter. But like he said, he was a smart man. The alternative to this luxurious manor—a four-story, stone-and-wood structure of adorned opulence apt for a king and his entourage, surrounded by lush lilac trees in full bloom and manicured gardens in courtyards—was the dire open road and its innumerable monsters, man and beast alike.

By summoning her, he’d as good as pleaded for this costly imprisonment.

And she knew it.

He nodded, gazing over her shoulder at the sumptuous bed on the other side of the enormous bedroom that was now his. It was large enough to fit at least two giant men, with a tall headboard upholstered in blue, plush velvet, light blue pillows stuffed full of down feathers, and an ornate, sturdy frame of lacquered mahogany. The white fleece blankets that covered the bed reminded him of a wolf’s dense fur.

It was leagues above grass, or naked soil, or rock. It was located in a formidable sorceress’s domain that no one less powerful than her could access without her explicit permission.

It was as safe and private as a place could be for him to give birth, when the time arrived.

“Thank you, Yennefer,” he said, looking her in the eye once more, and he meant it.

Score to him, he supposed, for the blink of surprise that she couldn’t conceal from him.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

The subsequent weeks saw Jaskier’s body transfigure into a physique that both fascinated and perturbed him. As he’d anticipated, just a week after being teleported to Yennefer’s manor, none of his clothes fitted him anymore. He had opened the grand armoire in his bedroom to discover it teeming with resplendent tunics of varying lengths and designs that made his jaw drop: most were shades of blue or teal, while the rest were shades of red, or gold, with elaborate embroidery and intricately woven trims.

His current favorite was a shin-length, blue tunic with a high collar, a v-shaped neckline, and long, narrow sleeves with puffy shoulders. Red trims on the collar, hemlines, and sleeves. Embroidered flowers and leaves that trailed down both sides of the collar to the midriff, and on the puffy shoulders. It almost resembled his favorite doublet, and he couldn’t help wondering how much of a coincidence it was that such a tunic would be in his armoire, fitting his changing body like a dream.

Yennefer would not be so kind as to design and magic up a tunic like this just for him.

Would she?

She gave him a glower that would have withered a behemoth to a worm when he asked her about the tunic, wearing it and twirling around in front of her. The fact that she didn’t fry him to a crisp even then was probably a hint that she didn’t loathe him as much as she claimed to.

He didn’t care about the tunic that much, anyway—compared to the splendid copper tub in the en suite bathroom of his bedroom. Every time he slipped into it, it would magically fill with clean water of ideal temperature up to the rim. He’d almost cried the first time from the pleasure of being able to wallow in a bath that never became cold, that didn’t have monster blood or viscera sullying it.

Geralt always took a bath first. Jaskier insisted on that, because he enjoyed washing Geralt’s long, silken hair, combing his fingers through the white strands, moisturizing it with oils. It wasn’t as gratifying to wash his own hair, although it was now sprouting even thicker from his head.

That was one of the things about his body that changed due to his pregnancy, apart from his swelling belly.

Apparently, the next major change to his body was his body hair sloughing off his skin into the bathwater without so much as a polite advance notice.

His scream of fright while he gaped down at the clumps of dark curls in his hands was loud enough that Yennefer stormed into the bathroom in a sexy lace-and-leather outfit, appearing three seconds away from incinerating whoever she thought had invaded her sanctum. He jolted, sending warm water splashing over the rim, and screamed again at her presence. He’d never been naked in front of her before!

Well, as far as he knew.

Which was not as disconcerting as he thought it should be.

“Are you dying?”

Her voice was flat. She leveled a very unimpressed look at him.

“I don’t know!” He raised his loose fists to show her the hair that had formerly graced his entire body save for his head. “ _Look!_ All of it just—just— _fell off!_ ”

She glowered at him, but deigned to use her magic to examine him yet again.

“Am I dying?” he squeaked, lowering his hands into the water to wash away the hair.

“You’re not melting away in layers, if that’s what you’re asking.” Her narrow-eyed glower turned into a gaze of contemplation. “I think this is part of the process.”

“The process of what?!”

“Changing your body to its most optimal state for bearing your child.”

He slapped both hands on his chest, and squealed, “How is _this_ supposed to help with _that?!_ ”

Whatever Yennefer’s reply was, he didn’t hear it. He made a face. He ran his hands over his pectorals. His very, _very_ smooth pectorals. He made another face.

“Oh,” he said.

He ran his hands over his equally smooth arms, then his legs. He stroked his belly bump, and—goodness, the trail of hair there was also gone. He reached farther down.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasped, his eyes and mouth wide at the new and odd sensation of not having any pubic hair either.

“I am leaving,” Yennefer ground out, then pivoted and stormed out of the bathroom as majestically as she’d entered. He should perhaps count himself lucky that she hadn’t boiled him in his bathwater like a fat shrimp in a pot.

After that particular development, near the end of the fifth month of his pregnancy, Jaskier’s body decided to lump many other changes together, making him experience them within the span of a week. His feet swelled and ached. His cheeks and jaw stayed smooth, relieving him of having to shave his face that glowed with a robust radiance. His lips plumped up. His eyelashes thickened like the hair on his head, and elongated to a ridiculous length.

He scrutinized them in the oval mirror above the ornamented dressing table in his bedroom. If he’d been a _pretty boy_ before—and oh yes, many, _many_ women, and more than a handful of men, throughout his life had described him as such—he was now, dare he say it, _spellbinding_.

He knew he wasn’t imagining it, not after Yennefer stared at his face with riveted eyes during dinner in the grandiose dining room and then muttered, “I hate you.”

He said, “I hate you too,” and gave her a smile that had enchanted an incalculable number of women across the Continent.

He did _not_ appreciate the chunk of bread that magically flew from the table at his face and struck him between the eyes.

“I can’t help it if my eyelashes are longer and thicker than hers now,” Jaskier muttered down at his belly later that evening, while sitting on the side of the bed in a white nightgown of silk. “I didn’t ask for that to happen!”

His baby didn’t say anything, but he hadn’t expected a response. He had no idea if his baby could hear him, or sense anything of the world beyond its compact quarters inside his body.

“You’d think she’d just use her magic to enhance hers, but _noooo_ , bread to the face! My face!”

He huffed and swung his legs up onto the bed. He used his hands and feet to push himself backwards until his back was leaning against the cushioned headboard.

“On the upside, it was rather good bread, and not the moldy sort that people used to throw at me before I met—”

The next few words smothered to surprised silence on his tongue. He stiffened, then glanced down, raising his right hand to cup his lower belly.

He was feeling a most _unusual_ sensation inside him. He’d never felt anything like it before, as if something was popping, or tickling him like a feather from the inside. Or as if something was _tumbling_ inside his belly.

“Oh, what’s going on here?”

He rubbed his belly where he’d felt the sensation. There it was again, right there under his hand! His lips curled up in amusement. Why, if he didn’t know better, he’d swear it was his baby swimming around like a—

His smile froze. Then, with a sucked-in breath that shuddered his torso, his smile spread into an euphoric grin. He sat up straighter. Pressed both hands to his round lower belly.

“Baby? Is that you saying hello to your daddy?”

_Oh_ , there it was once again!

There it was.

There his baby was.

An elated laugh burst from his mouth. He’d been aware for months, of course, that he was pregnant, ever since Yennefer told him so in that inn room. But being aware of it was so very different from _knowing_ it. There had been days when he sat at the writing desk next to the dressing table, jotting down words in his notebook and on sheafs of paper, that he had forgotten he wasn’t alone in his body anymore.

His baby could move inside him. His baby could hear him speak.

His baby.

His little, sweet baby.

He raised his head, still grinning—and to his already frangible heart’s detriment, his lips ran much faster than his brain.

“Geralt! Geralt, you need to feel this, the baby’s—”

This time, the words on his tongue perished to ringing silence as he glanced around his enormous bedroom with its tapestry-decorated walls.

Oh.

Geralt wasn’t here.

Of course the witcher wasn’t.

Jaskier told him that he wanted to return to Oxenfurt and live there, and he might as well have said that he wanted nothing to do with Geralt anymore, that Geralt had no place in his life anymore.

_So. You have tired of me. And of my life._

No, that wasn’t true. Not at all.

He’d spent those weeks after Yennefer’s revelation thinking, and thinking, and _thinking_ so hard of a compromise that would work for both of them, that wouldn’t result in him losing Geralt. That wouldn’t result in him losing his baby.

He couldn’t.

And look where that went.

_Do what you want. Go where you want._

_I don’t give a fuck._

Oh. Of course. How stupid of him. Geralt didn’t give a fuck about him anymore, so why would he care about this? Why would he care about some baby that had nothing whatsoever to do with him?

Geralt was somewhere out there, probably killing another monster right now, doing what he was trained to do since he was a boy, and doing it like the master he was. Geralt had traveled and worked alone for decades before they’d met in Posada, so it would be so _easy_ for Geralt to revert to that way of life. So easy for Geralt to kill one monster after another, to move from one town to another. So easy, to move on from the past.

So easy, to move on from Jaskier, and forget he ever existed.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, his voice a strange, broken thing. “I’m never going to see Geralt again.”

There was no movement in his belly.

He stared down at the swell of it, at the white silk covering it. Multiple spots and streaks of wetness were emerging on it, and he didn’t know where they were coming from, or why they weren’t stopping. He stared down at them.

His head was aching so much. His nose was stuffy and—it was running, and his teeth ached too. His lips were quivering, and now his entire _face_ ached, and rivulets of hot tears were scalding down his cheeks and—oh. Oh.

Oh, here it was, that monumental crying jag he’d kept at bay since Geralt walked away from him.

That thought was the fatal crack in the dam within him. There was no one else in this room with him, just his baby. His little, sweet baby wasn’t his judge and jury, nor his garroter, and it was okay for him to hunch up, to pull up his knees as much as he could, to bow his aching, heavy head and press his trembling hands to his crumpled face. To let the sobs he’d tramped down for so long scrape their way out of his constricted throat to echo around the room.

The bleak void within him hadn’t been as drained as he’d thought, after all.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

The sumptuous bed was as comfortable as Jaskier had presumed it would be. It was the sole thing that his enervated body had registered about anything, the sole thing that his dazed mind had bothered to process for—days? A week? More than week?

He didn’t know. He didn’t give a fuck.

He could not care less of a fuck if someone came into his bedroom and snatched his lute away, or burned all his notebooks and papers of worthless words to ashes. The bleak void within him was empty again.

He was somewhat aware that a servant, as regular as clockwork, would bring him his meals three times a day. Whoever they were, they would leave it on the bedside table nearest to the door, so he could reach for it from the bed. His back was always turned to the door, so he never saw them, and couldn’t guess whether the servant was a man or woman.

He ate some bread. Some stew. Some kind of pie at one point. They all tasted like dirt to him.

One day, he decided he didn’t want to eat anymore.

He languished in bed, curled up on his side, facing away from the door. Breakfast was served, and he didn’t touch it. It was taken away when lunch was served, and he didn’t touch that either. When dinner arrived, he sensed that the servant was lingering longer than usual, gazing at him.

He didn’t roll over. He remained curled up under the white fleece blankets, his head on one of those light blue pillows. He remained thoughtless, wordless.

It was nice to be so numb.

It was so nice to feel absolutely nothing, for a change.

The servant eventually left the room.

Jaskier didn’t know how much later it was that the bedroom door opened again, but he knew it wasn’t the servant who’d returned. No, only a pissed-off sorceress, who the servant must have informed about Jaskier’s new nourishment plan, could slam the door with such a unique brand of theatrics, and storm to the bed with such poise on such high-heeled shoes.

On another day, in another life where Geralt of Rivia didn’t exist, he might have appreciated the candlelit display of Yennefer’s deep cleavage and bountiful breasts in that over-bust corset.

“Jaskier.”

He didn’t respond. His eyes were half-shut. He stared at his own callused fingers on the bed, and wondered how long it’d been since he last handled his lute.

“ _Jaskier_.”

Ah, she did sound angry, didn’t she? Should he be scared? Should he be entreating for his life?

Would be another nice change of pace if she actually did fry him to a crisp or boil him in a pot.

“Gods, have you been lying there for _days?_ ”

He heard her make a sound of disgust. Heard her murmur a short incantation. Felt a cool wave of energy pass over him, like the waters of a stream under the noon sun.

He blinked like an owl.

Hm, bath by magic spell. That was a first for him.

He felt the side of the bed dip near his knees as she sat on it. He could feel her glaring daggers at him. Whatever reason it was she was here at all, it couldn’t possibly be concern of any sort.

“Tell me, bard, what’s a lark if he doesn’t sing?”

Oh, she was trying to goad him. To make him fucking feel again.

“A dead one,” he rasped, a smidgen above a whisper.

Yennefer didn’t mock him for that answer. She didn’t say anything for a long while, glaring on at him. He saw her next action coming from miles away, and didn’t so much as shiver when she pressed the tips of her forefinger and middle finger hard against his forehead.

{ _Stop. Moping._ }

He felt her fingers twitch. Felt her in his mind. Then she snatched her hand back, as if she’d just plunged her hand into flames and realized it a second too late, and he was alone again in his head.

She stared at him for a long time.

When she spoke once more, it was to flay him with seven murmured words that almost sounded astonished.

“You really do miss him that much.”

Against his will, Jaskier’s hand clenched into a fist on the bed. He knew that Yennefer saw it, for she shifted closer, her violet eyes boring into his face. It was the tiniest of mercies that she hadn’t used a certain other four-letter word instead of “miss”—he would have burst into tears _again_ , and he wouldn’t have cared how humiliating that would be in front of her, and he’d already filled his quota of crying his eyes out today, thanks very much.

She was gearing up for another offensive. He could feel it, feel how it was going to ram through his battered fortifications and earn her the victory.

She only needed four steely words to succeed.

“You’re hurting your baby.”

His eyes widened. His right hand flew to his rotund belly and grasped it. He sucked in a tremulous breath, and glanced up at her with what had to be puffy, red-rimmed eyes. He lowered his eyes after a moment. Pushed himself sitting upright with both hands on unsteady arms, and knew how terrible he appeared on top of his sore eyes: wan face, disheveled hair, rumpled nightgown.

He felt a scintilla of abashment at how much more unkempt and stinky he’d been before Yennefer cleaned him up with her magic.

“Look, I know you’re feeling like utter shite right now because of a certain arsehole witcher we both know too well for our own good. You need to bawl some more? Then do it. You need to fuck up the whole room, smash everything to smithereens? Scream your head off? Take a sword to some trees outside? Then _do it_.” She pressed her plump lips into a thin line. “But you keep this pathetic moping up? You keep _starving_ yourself like you foolishly tried today? What do you think that’s going to do to _your baby?_ ”

Jaskier gaped at her. She—she was right. If he’d kept avoiding food and water, he would not only have harmed himself, but also his baby. His baby needed food and water to grow, to be healthy.

His baby _needed_ him.

What the hell was he thinking?

Remorse engulfed him, robbing him of his breath. His eyes stung anew, and his throat closed up. He permitted himself one sniffle as he sat back against the headboard and gazed down at his belly, rubbing it with one hand.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he said, voice still croaky. “Daddy’s just feeling a little sad.”

His dry lips quirked up when he felt that unusual, wonderful tumbling sensation in his belly. He felt warmth like sunshine radiating inside him, and he told himself that it was his little, sweet baby reassuring him that it was okay. A charming tidbit of imagination for himself.

The derision he’d expected Yennefer to heap on him for his sentimentality never came. He raised his head to look at her, and to his amazement, her expression while she stared at his hand on his gravid belly was—wistful.

She blinked, and the wistfulness vanished, replaced by a stern expression.

“Are you listening, Jaskier?”

He nodded.

“You need to understand this: whatever it is that changed you and made you capable of bearing a child, it’s fucking _powerful_. If a person had done this, some mage or druid or even a priest—” Her eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Believe me, I would have captured them long ago.”

Jaskier gulped.

“More powerful than you, then.”

“Yes. Much more powerful.” She flicked at a brass buckle on the waist of her corset, her eyes flitting to the side as she reluctantly said, “Other than a glimpse of the baby inside you, I can’t discern a damn thing about the magic powering your pregnancy and changing your body. I’m being blocked. It’s like hitting a black wall and then seeing nothing except the wall.”

Jaskier twiddled the fingers of both hands on his belly. He bit his lower lip.

“So what now?”

She gazed at him again, her eyes fierce and wide.

“You need to understand this as well: magic has a price. Always. Whatever this powerful entity is, it chose you for a reason. It chose to do this to you for a reason.”

Jaskier gulped again.

“So it’s going to come after me, you think?” His hands fell to his sides on the bed. “After my baby.”

Yennefer said nothing.

Jaskier’s hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. The hackles on his neck rose. His shoulders tensed into a granite block of burgeoning fury. He gritted his teeth, and bared them.

“I’ll kill it,” he snarled. “If it even _tries_ to take my baby, I’ll cut its fucking heart out. Rip its throat out with my teeth, and bathe in its guts.”

He meant every single word.

And Yennefer, her red-painted lips curving up in a grim, proud smile, believed him.

“Good,” she said. “You should see yourself. Far more the wild wolf than Geralt.”

Hearing the witcher’s name from her lips snapped him out of his blood-red haze. He blinked, and his shoulders slumped, and he glanced down at his belly again, his eyes heavy-lidded. Was there ever going to be a time when Geralt’s name didn’t make his chest ache so much, or make his eyes sting so hot?

Perhaps he would never stop missing Geralt. Perhaps that bleak void would always be in him from now on, shaped like Geralt.

Perhaps he had to make peace with that, in order to move on for himself.

His baby needed him, and he would do whatever he had to, to keep his baby safe and well.

Jaskier glanced at Yennefer. She was staring at his belly again. Staring with that wistful expression, as if what he had was what she longed for, more than anything in the world.

“Yennefer.” When she looked him in the eye, he asked, “Do you want to touch my belly? Feel the baby moving?”

He was prepared for her to glare at him, yell at him for daring to ask such an idiotic thing.

She did neither.

She gave him such a look of stark astonishment, of _yearning_ that he felt its pain like the slash of a blade to his flesh. He swallowed down a small lump in his throat.

“Go on. I think he’s going to move soon.”

“The baby’s a boy?”

Jaskier blinked again. His features softened, and he replied, “It’s just a feeling, but—I think, yes. A boy.”

Yes, a boy. A little, sweet boy.

Yennefer rested a slender hand on the swell of his belly with a gentleness he’d never witnessed from her before. He let out a huff of laughter when his baby wriggled, as if excited by a new touch. He watched a wonderstruck smile brighten her face in increments, and yeah, he could see why Geralt had fallen in love with her once upon a time, if she could smile like that, without the bitterness and the callousness.

“Have you,” Jaskier murmured, “ever thought about being a mother?”

Yennefer’s smile faded into a bittersweet one.

“I can’t bear children. I don’t have a womb.” She stared down at her hand lingering on his belly. “The price I paid for being remodeled by an enchanter into the beauty I am today, and not the hunchbacked, ugly thing I once was.”

Jaskier was much wiser than to say he was sorry. She’d made her choices, like he’d made his own. Everyone paid for the consequences of their choices, one way or another, sooner or later.

“That’s why you’d wanted the djinn so badly. In Rinde.”

Yennefer continued to stare down at her hand on his belly. He gazed down at it as well. At the time, he hadn’t understood why she’d been so desperate to obtain the djinn. Hadn’t bothered to understand, considering she’d had a honed blade to his throat and his genitals crushed in her other hand. What could have driven a woman to attempt to be a vessel for a damn djinn, despite the tremendous risk of being killed by it?

He stroked the side of his rotund belly with the back of his fingers, inches away from the sorceress’s hand. He shut his eyes, and imagined his baby boy floating inside it, growing bigger by the day, growing into an embodiment of pure joy and love that he could cuddle and kiss and sing to sleep in his arms.

Well, he understood now.

“Yennefer.” He felt her gaze on his face again. “If you want to feel the baby move, just—” He opened his eyes to half-mast. “Just ask.”

She stared at him with a deceptively impassive face. She stared down at his belly, at her hand that still lingered on it.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” she said, looking him in the eye with gleaming violet ones, and he knew that she meant it.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

By the sixth month of pregnancy, Jaskier’s belly was too large for him to hold his lute in front of his torso. He’d burst into tears in his bedroom, realized how silly he was for crying over it, then burst into tears over _that_.

It was ridiculous. He was now crying over the most random of things at random times, and he had next to no control over it. Once, he cried over a slice of apple pie, because apple reminded him of Roach who’d enjoyed eating slices of it out of Geralt’s hand while the witcher murmured to her. Another time, he cried over a floppy-eared puppy he came across in the gardens because it was black and had amber eyes. Then Yennefer yelled at him for moping again, and he got mad at her and yelled back, and then she exclaimed, “Do what you want! I don’t give a fuck!”

Unlike the other crying jags, this one was completely silent. For the rest of the day, he locked himself in his room, on his bed, burying his face in the pillow. For some unfathomable reason, he felt sick to his stomach. Felt as if something had been carved out of him with a sword and he’d remembered it all over again.

He felt fingertips on his temple. Felt a presence in his head like a mild flurry of air, flitting in then out to leave him be again.

For some other unfathomable reason, a plate of bread-and-butter pudding appeared on his bedside table, just the way he liked it. It was delicious to the last crumb.

For an even more unfathomable reason, Yennefer was a bit nicer to him after that.

The tiniest bit.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying over that fucking linen shirt!” Jaskier shouted on another day, uncaring of the tears trailing down his cheeks, hugging his leather-bound notebook to his chest. “Do you think I delight being in this histrionic state?! These ceaseless, cascading rivers of salty tears down my pulchritudinous visage, taunting me with my outright loss of authority over my overflowing tear ducts and ravenous stomach?!”

He and Yennefer were lounging in cushioned armchairs facing each other across an oval, wooden table in the manor’s round, sunlight-deluged solarium. It was his favorite room after his bedroom.

“Is that your next hit song, bard?”

Her sarcasm was as tart as the dark wine in the glass she held near to her mouth.

Jaskier sniffled. Wrinkled his nose. Sniffled again, then croaked, “You know what, those _are_ rather good words.”

With salty tears still cascading down his pulchritudinous visage, he plucked up his quill from the table top, opened his notebook and propped it on his belly, and jotted them down. He did not condescend to acknowledge Yennefer’s exaggerated eye roll.

On yet another day, in the dining room during a dinner of braised chicken with carrots, potatoes, and thyme, Yennefer said to him, “You have accomplished the impossible.”

With a mouth full of succulent meat and savory sauce, he blurted, “What? What are you saying?”

She forked a piece of potato into her mouth and somehow made that move appear sultry.

“You have made me truly reconsider being a mother in any way.”

Jaskier almost choked on his food. He swallowed it down, then sputtered, his lips forming all sorts of shapes. He straightened up in his chair and jabbed a forefinger in the air at her.

“ _You!_ You—how—how dare you?! I’m—I am a good mother! A _great_ moth— _dad!_ I am the ultimate daddy of all daddies!” He sniffled hard, still glaring at her with the strength of a thousand witcher glares. “That was very, very, _very_ rude, Yennefer! Are you trying to hurt my feelings?! You are, aren’t you?!”

“Please _stop crying_ —”

“I don’t want to cry but I can’t stop it!” He spooned a gigantic amount of carrots and potatoes into his insatiable gob, chewed and swallowed, then sniffled and exclaimed, “That’s what you get for being so mean to me!”

Yennefer released a sigh that seemed to take the wind out of her cynical sails.

“Will you stop if you get another slice of honey cake?”

“No!” He sniffed, his head held high. “I want the whole cake.”

She gave his huge belly a pointed glance.

“You don’t need the whole cake.”

“Yes, I _need_ the whole cake.” He bared both rows of teeth at her, his eyes wide. “ _I need it._ Or I will eat the horses. I swear it, I will!”

He got the whole honey cake.

“That wasn’t true, I wouldn’t have eaten you and Garnet, I promise,” Jaskier said to Snowball, a tall draught horse with a bay coat and white markings, the next day in the manor’s stables. “I much prefer chicken anyway.”

Snowball had a temperament that was the polar opposite of Roach’s. She was a tender giant that let him pet her as much as he wanted, and stood still while he groomed her. She never bit him. She seemed to listen to everything he said. But most importantly, she was gentle with his bulging belly, and her nuzzling it always brought a smile to his face.

Roach would never do that.

Or most likely, her master would never let her do that.

“Baby’s getting bigger now, isn’t he?” He pulled the comb through Snowball’s long, black mane, enjoying the sensation of its tines straightening out snags. “I think he’s going to be colossal by the time he’s ready to come out.”

Snowball let out a low neigh. She turned her head to nibble at the ruched sleeve of his blue tunic.

“I’m trying very hard not to think about who my baby’s daddy is. Apart from me, that is.” He pulled the comb through her mane again. “Yennefer did say that the baby looked, well, _normal_. So either I’ve lucked out in not having a monster baby despite having a monster baby daddy, or she was wrong, and it _was_ a person who’d caused this to happen to me.”

Snowball straightened her neck to let Jaskier comb a different section of her mane.

He sighed, then murmured, “I mean, really, who would _want_ to do this to me? You’d think there would be easier ways to have a baby than to magically transform a _man_ into doing the job, when there are _women_ all over the Continent!”

Snowball let out a raucous huff of air.

“Why me? I don’t know, Snowball. I really don’t.” He sighed again. “Unless whoever did this to me specifically wanted _me_ to bear their child. And _who_ would?” He snorted. “I mean, _really_ , the only person who’s known me for long enough to even _care_ about me anywhere close to that much is—”

The inexorable, vivid image of a certain muscular, white-haired witcher in black armor surged to the forefront of his mind. It was one of his most treasured memories of the witcher: sitting there in the dim corner of the tavern with a tankard of ale, that long, white hair combed and tied back, that handsome face clean and fierce. Those large, amber eyes glimmering in the sunlight, gazing at him.

A lifetime ago in Posada.

A distant memory in the past, that he alone in the world would cherish now.

“Was.” Jaskier’s throat bobbed with a painful swallow. “Was Geralt.”

The mane comb plummeted from his loose hand onto the soil floor. He stared down at it, and so did Snowball. He tried to bend down to pick it up, but his belly got in the way. He sucked in a shuddery breath. Then another. Then he slowly knelt on the ground, then sat on his heels, leaning against the draught horse’s front feathered leg.

Snowball was a sweetheart like his baby. Snowball didn’t judge him either when he burst into tears once more. He leaned his head against hers when she nuzzled his damp face. He let the sobs rack his chest—and cursed his fucking stupid imagination for daring to plant such a speck of hope in the bleak void in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next update: guess who's coming back into Jaskier's life?  
> Hint: he's an obmutescent arsehole witcher who _really_ needs to learn to use his words.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos give me life, people. Thank you so much for them! ❤️ My apologies for not replying to comments yet, but I'm writing the story to the end as fast as I can--and something tells me no one is gonna complain about that, haha.
> 
> Two scenes from the Netflix show relevant to this update: [Duny and Pavetta's wedding ceremony, where Geralt claims the Law of Surprise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHXbb00EpbM), and [Queen Calanthe's death](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qd-nGrNDW9M).
> 
> Soundtrack: [The Apple of My Eye, by Ólafur Arnalds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=av6DCc90_xQ).
> 
> I highly recommend listening to it while reading the second section of this update. But really, it's an exquisite piece of music I always listen to whenever I want to write epic heart-aching feels. It's pretty much the soundtrack for the rest of the story from here onwards.
> 
> Let's bring on the first wave of Geraskier feels!

Jaskier flinched when Yennefer let out an almighty roar of frustration, her raised hands taut and ready to claw someone’s eyes out. He really hoped those eyes weren’t his.

“I guess that’s still a no on the whole baby daddy identification, then,” he said, grimacing, rubbing at the upper swell of his belly while he sat at the foot of his bed, a fleece blanket draped over his shoulders. His teal tunic with gold, woven trims covered him to the ankles.

He watched her pace the length of his bedroom like a caged striga. She was in a surprisingly demure dress today, a long-sleeved, linen one with a wide belt tied at the waist. Her black, wavy hair was tied up in a bun on her crown. There were purplish shadows under her blazing eyes.

He’d lost count of the number of attempts she’d made to see past the “black wall” that obstructed her from studying the mysterious magic behind his pregnancy. She’d claimed that she had never encountered anything like it in her seventy-plus years of life. There was no precedent for a case like his in any records of magic that she’d researched.

He was still on the fence about whether to feel proud about that, or open his mouth and scream and never stop.

Eh, if he was going to open his mouth, he might as well stuff it with more delectable food.

Yennefer halted in front of him. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Again,” she growled.

Jaskier groaned and ran his hands down his face in no small amount of frustration of his own.

“Yennefer! I’ve already _told_ you what happened—”

“ _Again_ , Jaskier. You might have missed out on some important details before!”

He flung his hands up and squealed, “Details like what?!”

She glared down at him, her bare lips pursed. “I won’t know unless you tell me!”

He slapped his palms to his temples and exclaimed, “How can I tell you something I don’t know?!”

She seized his lower jaw with one hand. Her fingernails dug into his smooth skin. He squeaked, staring up at her with saucer-round eyes.

“You know. You just don’t _recall_ it.”

She released him with a huff, and returned to pacing the length of the room. Jaskier pouted and rubbed at his jaw where her nails had poked him.

“Again,” she commanded.

Jaskier sighed and shut his eyes. Then he opened them to half-mast and said, “We were on the way to Belhaven. Geralt said he knew a shortcut through the forest that would save us days of being on the road.” He shrugged, and tugged the fleece blanket back around his shoulders when it almost slid off. “The forest was, well, like any other forest, apart from the mist. I told you about that already.”

Yennefer said nothing and kept pacing, listening.

“We spent one night in there. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Geralt caught two hares for dinner. We retired early for the night, and—” He shrugged again, holding onto the edges of the blanket at his elbows. “I had a rather good sleep, actually, until the pain woke me up.”

“The pain in your belly. As if your insides were being rearranged.”

“Yes. From my chest to my groin. It was horrible.” He pouted again. “And Geralt wasn’t even there when I woke up, gods know where he was—”

“Geralt wasn’t there?” Yennefer stared at him, her violet eyes intense. “You didn’t mention that.”

Jaskier made a face. “I didn’t? Are you sure? Well, he wasn’t. His bedroll was empty. I didn’t see him at all, not until I woke up in the morning.” He made another face. “I suppose he came back after I fell asleep again.”

“Did you ask him where he went?”

“Yes.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “He just grunted in reply.”

Yennefer also rolled her eyes.

“Of course that obmutescent clod did. Would it _hurt_ him to use _words_ once in a while?”

Jaskier mouthed “obmutescent” to himself, and memorized the word so he could write it in his notebook later. Yennefer walked to the windows and stared out at the lilac trees, scowling to herself.

“Stupid man,” she muttered. “Stupid, stubborn man.”

“Are you referring to me, or Geralt?”

Yennefer didn’t look at him. She continued to stare out the windows.

“I’d ask him for details if I could. But I can’t find him.”

Jaskier’s blood flowed ice-cold upon hearing that. He stared at her, his lips parted. The wounded thing in the left side of his chest skipped a long beat.

He whispered, “What do you mean by that?” The fleece blanket slipped off his shoulders. “Doesn’t he have—can’t you—track him through the summoning amulet?”

She didn’t answer his questions. Instead, she strode back to him and sat next to him at the foot of the bed. She gripped his upper arms. Stared into his wide eyes with unblinking ones become even more intense.

“Take care of yourself and your baby. Stay here, where it’s safe. That’s your job.” Her voice was edged with molten steel. “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Geralt.” Her fingers tightened. “Do you hear me, Jaskier?”

He gave her a jerky nod without breaking eye contact. After several more seconds of staring, she let go of his arms, stood up and headed for the door. His mouth worked soundlessly as he watched her leave. When she opened the door and stepped into the passageway, he called out her name.

“Yennefer!”

She pivoted and gazed at him.

“If—” He swallowed hard, then rasped, “If something’s happened to Geralt, you’d tell me. Wouldn’t you?”

She stared at him for several silent seconds.

“Yes.” She turned back to the passageway. “I’m going back to that forest. And I’ll find him, wherever he is.”

Jaskier sat at the foot of the bed long after she was gone, staring sightlessly at the writing desk and its sheafs of papers, his arms wrapped around his belly, his baby.

He had no clues when Yennefer departed from the manor—other than the thin book, an abundance of skeins of yarn in various colors, scissors, a wooden pair of knitting needles, and an assortment of other sewing needles on his dressing table that he noticed upon waking up from a fitful slumber. He gaped at them from the bed. After getting over the shock of Yennefer expecting him to _learn to knit_ , he shuffled to the dressing table to inspect the items.

How was he supposed to concentrate on _knitting_ when Geralt was somewhere out there, _missing?_ Or _worse?_

As it turned out, Yennefer wasn’t just cut-throat and petrifying, she was so very shrewd as well: the book was packed from cover to cover with knitting instructions for baby clothes. Cute, itty-bitty baby clothes. He was a goner the instant he saw the instructions for knitting an envelope blanket shaped like a five-point star.

And Yennefer had promised she would find Geralt. Knowing her like he did now, that was as good as done. It was simply a matter of time.

“Well, then,” he said with a wry smile, picking up the knitting needles and appraising them. “Time to work.”

The solarium became his knitting room. He lounged in the cushioned armchair there, producing at least five shapeless catastrophes before he completed his first successful project: a baby sock in blue. It was a teeny thing, smaller than his palm. But it looked like a sock, and it was so adorable, and he could _see_ his baby boy wearing it on one of his newborn feet.

“Look, sweetheart!” He gasped in jubilation, and waved the finished sock at his belly. “I made a sock for you!”

He grinned when he felt a distinct kick. His baby had a vigorous one, the resolved strike of a warrior in battle. True, he wasn’t so fond of those kicks when they were aimed at his ribs or bladder, but he was so proud of his baby boy’s strength.

It was almost like—a witcher’s.

“Let’s get started on the other one, shall we?” Jaskier said, and promptly buried that silly thought in his mental palace that stored the thousands of inexorable, vivid images of that witcher.

Once he got the hang of it, he was knitting clothes at an exponential rate. He knitted bonnets, blankets, baby gowns, and mittens. A hooded cape with attached pointed ears that were rather canine-like. Sweaters. That star-shaped envelope blanket to cuddle his baby in and keep him warm. He was extra proud of the blue top with puffy sleeves and red patterns that resembled his favorite doublet.

He took to also knitting in his bedroom at night, prattling to his baby in the candlelight. His baby was regularly moving these days, multiple times an hour, and kicked in particular when he ranted about things or people he detested.

“Let’s see that thieving bastard Valdo Marx try to top _this_ , hm?” He patted his belly with his free hand while his other hand gripped his knitting needles. “He’s stolen my songs, but he can’t steal _you_ from me!”

His baby boy let loose a ferocious kick, and he grimaced and chortled, rubbing at the area that got kicked.

“Yeah, darling, kick him like that! Kick him in his shriveled bollocks!”

And if his baby rolled more whenever he spoke about witchers, and about the soothing bliss of washing long, white hair, and about the heart-aching comfort of watching a witcher sleep beside him, he didn’t think too much about it. He was too busy knitting adult-sized socks. A few were for himself. Some were for Yennefer.

Oh, and if a bunch of them were far too big for Yennefer or him—it was just a coincidence that they were the size of a witcher’s considerable feet. Nothing more.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Seven months into Jaskier’s pregnancy, Yennefer returned to the manor.

She didn’t return alone.

Jaskier was sitting at the writing desk, cautiously cleaning the soundboard of his lute with a cloth and some olive oil. He was so focused on the task that he ignored the voices that drifted in through the open windows at first. His bedroom overlooked the front courtyard, and it was routine for Yennefer’s servants to maintain and prune the lilac trees and flower bushes there.

Then, one voice spoke at a higher volume.

Jaskier’s hand, still gripping the cloth, froze inches above his lute. He froze along with it, his eyes wide and unseeing as he stared down at the lute’s strings.

That voice spoke again, demanding Yennefer to divulge the location of this manor.

Jaskier lowered his hand to the desk, slow and steady. He straightened his spine and raised his head. He stared at the embellished tapestry on the wall behind the desk, and he willed his lungs to work again, to inhale and exhale long breaths that weren’t as steady as his hand.

He knew that voice. He knew that deep, gravelly voice, like he knew no other. He’d listened to it throughout half of his lifetime. Memorized its cadences, its inflections, and its tonalities. Reveled in it speaking to him from lips that smiled at him and kissed him in his undying fantasies.

Yes, there was only one voice in the world that could send such lightning-hot bolts of longing and heartache and lust shooting through him, even now.

He pressed his hands flat on the desk to push himself upright onto his feet. He took measured steps to the nearest window, and he stopped at the edge of it, his eyes aimed forward, his hands clenched and trembling at his sides.

He could do this. He could turn and face the window and look, and not snap like a brittle twig under a heavy boot.

He’d looked at the possessor of that deep, gravelly, sensual voice so many times, in the day and in the night, in the light of a candle or a campfire. He’d memorized so, so many breathtaking visions of its possessor, so what was one more look?

What was one more look at the true love of his life?

Jaskier drew in a long breath that caught at its end.

He turned, and rested his hands on the window sill. He lowered his head, his eyes, and _looked_ —and in that moment, he thought about the sea. He thought of its frothing, rolling waves, its rich blueness, always moving and forever unfolding beyond the remote horizon of the world. He thought about how much of it had yet to be discovered and known, how profound it must be. Immeasurable, inescapable. Inevitable.

He wondered how it was, then, that the sea somehow compressed itself into a single man. Into that bleak void in him, replenishing it with the rhymes and songs he’d thought he lost. Into his searing eyes, then out of them as hot, salty rivers down his cheeks, past his lips curling up in a quivering, rejoicing smile.

He wondered how it was possible that a single word, a single name could encompass his whole world restored. How it was possible that a mere human voice like his could even whisper it, and not shatter.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier swallowed past a boulder in his throat. Swallowed down a sob that would have racked his chest and invited many more to join it.

“Oh, Geralt,” he whispered again, and still, he did not shatter.

The bold, handsome witcher was there, right there, in the courtyard. Standing tall and so strong next to Roach, gripping her leather reins in one gloved hand. His long white hair was tied but disheveled, and it shone like Jaskier remembered, under the afternoon sunlight. His black armor was scratched and stained with old blood but intact, protecting its precious wearer from injury. His face was unshaven and gaunt in a way that Jaskier had never seen before.

And still, Geralt was gorgeous.

Geralt, gorgeous and perfect: the perpetual star to all the pale imitations in Jaskier’s dreams.

“Look at you, you big, old, grumpy boor,” Jaskier rasped, paying no heed to his unabating tears of heartache and joy that turned his vision into vibrant watercolors. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself at all.”

He refused to blink as he stared on at Geralt, who was now glancing here and there with a frown, as if the witcher was searching for something he couldn’t see. How exhausted Geralt had to be, that the dark bags under those large, amber eyes were obvious to Jaskier from this distance.

_I’ve missed you so much, my monster-slaying champion, my muse._

_You’re here. You’re so near, safe and sound._

_And still, I miss you so much._

A movement from the other side of Roach caught Jaskier’s attention. His stinging eyes tore themselves away from Geralt to land on—a girl. An ashen grey-haired girl with big, emerald green eyes in a hooded cloak, who couldn’t be more than twelve years old.

He stared at her, his brows creasing in a bewildered frown. He blinked, causing more tears to trickle down, to dew his lips. What was Geralt doing with a little girl, while looking so battle-worn? Why did she seem so familiar?

He blinked again.

That ashen-grey was a rare hair color. But he—yes, he was quite sure he’d encountered that distinct hue before, although he’d never seen this girl until today. On an older woman? Her sister, or mother, perhaps? Someone for whom he’d sung in the past? It was very plausible.

Dear gods, he desperately hoped this young girl’s mother wasn’t someone he’d slept with before and couldn’t recall. What would Geralt think if—if—

Jaskier’s damp eyes whipped back to Geralt.

Geralt, who was no longer glancing here and there.

Geralt, who stared up at him with such fervent, wide eyes that glimmered in the sunlight.

Jaskier was pinned to the spot. He couldn’t gasp, or unfasten his white-knuckled fingers from the window sill, all his muscles rigid, the floor fallen away from beneath his feet. His heart—that delicate, hopeful, once-splintered thing that had somehow reformed itself—thundered in his ears, his chest.

Geralt saw him.

Geralt _saw_ him.

His lips parted, the witcher’s name tingling on his tongue, ready to soar out of his mouth as an ecstatic cry.

Then Geralt cleaved their locked gazes with a furious twist of that full head of white hair, and roared at Yennefer who was out of Jaskier’s range of sight.

“ _You didn’t tell me he’s here!_ ”

It snapped Jaskier out of his reverie. He sucked in a harsh breath. Staggered away from the window, then lurched forward to slam all the windows shut. He could hear Geralt and Yennefer snarling at each other, but their parries were muffled. He shivered. Hugged himself above his rotund belly with both arms, and stumbled to his bed.

Oh, the _wrath_ in Geralt’s voice.

All that wrath—at Jaskier’s presence here.

He sat down hard on the side of the bed. He shivered again, and blinked, and tasted more wet salt on his lips. He rubbed a shaky hand on his belly when his baby rolled. He felt that wave of warmth radiating from inside his belly, like it did whenever his emotions were a scattered, torturous mess.

“Let’s just stay here today, okay, sweetheart?”

His baby didn’t kick or wriggle in response to his watery whisper. But he felt that wave of sunshine inside him again, and it gave him solace.

It was enough for now.

Just enough to turn a blind, throbbing heart to the relentless current that was Geralt, and not drown yet.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Less than an hour later, Yennefer barged into Jaskier’s bedroom in one of her many lace-and-leather outfits, and planted herself on the side of his bed like the regal queen she was. He knew he was in for another tongue-lashing from her when she glared at him.

It wasn’t the fun sort of tongue-lashing either.

“You actually told Geralt you were moving to Oxenfurt,” she growled. “To live there.”

She looked terrible, which was to say that she was still more ravishing than most women in existence on their best days. She had dark rings of fatigue around her violet eyes, and her face was peaky. Her long, wavy hair was damp and tousled after a bath, billowing down her bare shoulders. There were bruises and red scratches on her arms that hadn’t been there before she left the manor.

What had happened to her, while she was out there searching for Geralt?

When Jaskier realized that she was expecting a response, he bit his lower lip.

“Uhm. Yes?” He shrugged, trying not to cower against the bed’s velvety headboard. He kept his legs straight and close together on the bed. “But—but I didn’t really mean it.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes.

“Did _he_ know that?”

“Uhm. Maybe?” Jaskier grimaced. He tugged at his maroon, shin-length tunic at the hip. “No? But in my defense, it was a rather stressful conversation for me, and I didn’t know what else to say to him that would convince him that I—well.” His expression crumbled into one of dejection. “That I had to leave him.”

Yennefer let out a huff that was both frustrated and—he still couldn’t believe he was saying this about the sorceress: _fond_.

“Geralt went to Oxenfurt to search for you.”

Jaskier gaped at her with a mouth opened like a hooked fish’s, then squeaked, “What?”

“I had to pry every detail out of him like a fucking knife in the eyeball, but that’s what he said.” Her eyes narrowed even more. “He left Gulet after completing whatever contract he had there. Rode to Oxenfurt, and apparently terrorized the entire Academy for days, threatening to _hurt_ people if they didn’t stop hiding you from him.”

Jaskier was sure that his lower jaw sagged all the way to the floor through the bed, as impossible as that physically was.

Then again, a human man like him wasn’t supposed to get pregnant at all, and look at him now.

“I—he—he really—he really did that?!”

“What, did you expect a witcher also known as the _Butcher of Blaviken_ to go to the reception hall, and politely request for an academic catalog? Make an appointment so they can slot him into the next staff meeting?”

Jaskier’s mouth worked in a series of soundless shapes.

“He’s been banned from setting foot in the Academy for the next fifty years.” Yennefer rolled her eyes and leaned back on her hands on the bed. “For almost strangling a bard in the Faculty of _Poetry_ or something to death.”

Jaskier’s mouth worked in another series of elastic, soundless shapes.

“And—and who was this bard?” Jaskier waved his hands about. “Why did Geralt do that?!”

“Some idiot called Vado Max. I don’t know.” Yennefer shrugged and rolled her eyes again, already bored. “Geralt didn’t explain.”

Jaskier gasped and slapped a hand to his chest. Geralt almost strangled _Valdo Marx_ to death? In full view of the Academy?! Oh, to have been a witness to that _marvelous_ occasion, to observe Geralt’s forceful hand squeezing and _squeezing_ that thieving rat’s scrawny neck until his brainless head _popped_ —

“Wait.” Jaskier’s face scrunched with shock. “Valdo Marx is a _lecturer_ in the Faculty of Trouvereship and Poetry?!”

Yennefer gave him a deadpan look.

“Friend of yours?”

Jaskier sputtered, waving his hands around again.

“I would rather be a skunk’s foul arsehole for a thousand years than be that noxious, slimy, _unoriginal_ travesty of a bloody bard’s—” His features contorted into an expression of repugnance. “ _Friend_.”

The tiny smile that Yennefer gave him was wicked.

“There you are,” she murmured.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. Eyes that he knew were puffy and red-rimmed and might as well have shouted to Yennefer that he’d been crying his eyes out yet again. And she knew precisely why.

He sighed. He stared down at the bed, at a spot next to his thigh. He picked at the beige sheets.

“Did he really do all that?”

Yennefer didn’t bother to answer his mumbled rhetorical question. His mouth rambled on just fine without any feedback from her.

“But he was—so angry. You didn’t tell him I’m here, and it must have been such an unpleasant surprise for him when he saw—” His throat constricted for several seconds. He went silent for as long. “He must have had a very, very good reason to search for me, that had nothing at all to do with me.”

When he glanced up, Yennefer was shaking her head. Frowning at him as if he was the biggest dunce she’d ever had the misfortune of adopting.

“What?” He pouted at her. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Yennefer looked like she was about to smack him across the head—and it wouldn’t be the first time—but she rolled her eyes instead, and said, “He would have probably scoured the rest of the Continent for you, if he had his way.”

Jaskier didn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe that. But it was nice of her to tell him such a sweet lie.

“And since he didn’t get his way?”

“He got sidetracked.” Yennefer’s lips quirked up on one end. “By the princess of Cintra.”

It took Jaskier multiple blinks for her latter statement to be processed by his brain.

“What?”

“Ciri.” Yennefer’s eyes softened, the way they would whenever she rested a hand on his belly and felt his baby move. “Princess Cirilla of Cintra.”

There was one princess of Cintra that he was acquainted with, and her name _wasn’t_ Cirilla.

Her name was Pavetta.

He stared at Yennefer, but what he saw in his mind was Pavetta’s wedding ceremony in the Cintran Castle over a decade ago. He and Geralt had been standing next to each other, facing the young couple while they knelt on the intricately tiled floor in front of Queen Calanthe, Pavetta’s iron-willed mother.

He’d had an arm around a stout lady whose face and name he couldn’t recall now, but even as he’d gazed at Duny and Pavetta kissing each other, he had been so aware of Geralt beside him. So aware of Geralt’s large hand a mere arm’s length away from his.

So acutely aware of his delicate, hopeful, _stupid_ heart wishing he could put his arm around Geralt instead, and grasp Geralt’s hand. Wishing he and Geralt were the ones kneeling and facing each other in their own marriage ceremony, ardently kissing, and letting tears of rapture anoint their lips.

Well, Geralt wouldn’t cry, but _he_ would.

He certainly had while Duny and Pavetta smiled at each other through joyful tears, after Duny’s curse had been lifted and he was no longer a human hedgehog. He’d made that vapid comment about the event being the makings of his greatest ballad yet to distract everyone from his eyes welling, his face crumpling. The stout lady had given him a handkerchief. Geralt had looked at him and cautioned him to not “grope for trout in any peculiar rivers” with raised eyebrows.

And no one had known that his tears were bittersweet ones, for a fantasy that would never come true.

He’d already been so madly in love with Geralt by then.

He still was.

“Pavetta,” Jaskier murmured here and now, his eyes glazed. “Duny.”

Yennefer’s aloof reply swept away whatever wistfulness he was experiencing like an icy tide.

“Dead. Drowned.”

He stared at Yennefer with wide eyes, his lips parted, chilled to the marrow.

“Queen Calanthe?”

He remembered the gladness that had made the statuesque woman’s face so tender, as she gazed down at an exultant Pavetta, as she realized that her choice to put her daughter’s happiness above hers had blessed her child with even more happiness.

Yennefer razed that image with a blood-curdling one.

“Also dead. She’d thrown herself out the highest window of the castle’s tallest tower.” Her violet eyes darkened. “Geralt witnessed it.”

Jaskier slumped against the headboard, lowering his gaze to stare into the distance past Yennefer’s shoulder. He pressed his cold hands to his thighs.

“Oh,” he breathed.

“The entire city is dead, Jaskier. Cintra has fallen to Nilfgaard.”

His brain struggled to process the information, to accept the atrocities as facts. All these months, he’d been here in this luxurious manor, while Geralt had been out there, embroiled in a brutal war—and rescuing a young princess while he was at it.

He glanced at Yennefer’s arms. At the bruises and scratches marring them. Had she earned those when she found Geralt, and helped him and Princess Cirilla elude the Nilfgaardian army?

_Take care of yourself and your baby._

_Stay here, where it’s safe._

Had Yennefer already known that the war was raging, by the time she’d said those words to him? Had she confined him here all these months, not just to examine and experiment on his magically transformed body, but to protect him and his baby from the war?

He stared out the windows at the lilac trees that were always in full bloom. At the sky that was always blue and clear during the day, and strewn with stars during the night. Not once during his stay here had it rained.

“Oh,” he breathed again, and Yennefer seemed to understand, for the darkness faded from her eyes and they twinkled with black humor.

“Yes,” she said, smirking, “I _am_ a powerful sorceress.”

He glanced at her—but again, he saw in his mind Duny and Pavetta’s wedding ceremony. He saw Duny scrambling up to his feet, calling out to Geralt. Insisting to Geralt that he be rewarded for saving Duny’s life.

Geralt had claimed the Law of Surprise.

_Give me that which you already have but do not know._

That was when Pavetta had vomited, clutching at her stomach. Vomited just like Jaskier had, during his early months of pregnancy, before he even knew he was with child.

“Oh. She’s Pavetta’s daughter,” he murmured more to himself than to Yennefer. “Was she why he was searching for me? Because he needed my help with her?” He sensed Yennefer was about to speak, frowning at him like she was—but the words that flew out his mouth next quietened her. “She’s his—his ‘reward’ from Duny. His Child Surprise.”

Yennefer let out a heavy huff, still frowning at him. He couldn’t comprehend why she seemed so exasperated with him. It made total sense, didn’t it, that Geralt was only searching for him because the witcher needed help to rescue the princess and escape from the city laid to waste?

Why else would Geralt search for him, after saying those damning words in that inn room?

Yennefer gave his round belly a pointed look.

“He has two Child Surprises now,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him.

His face heated up from forehead to chin. His mouth dropped open in the beginnings of an epic retort—but it snapped shut a moment later.

Yennefer was right. Geralt hadn’t anticipated that Pavetta would be pregnant when he’d claimed the Law of Surprise. Geralt sure as fuck wasn’t going to anticipate _Jaskier_ being pregnant. To call his growing baby a “surprise” for Geralt would be like calling a throng of Arachasae invading a town “child’s play”.

Jaskier would be lucky if Geralt’s sole reaction was to mutter, “Fuck,” while staring at his belly.

“You’re not obligated to meet him,” Yennefer said. “The manor’s large enough that you can easily move around without running into him.”

Jaskier shut his eyes and shook his head.

“It’s not that, it’s—” His chest heaved with a long sigh, and he opened his eyes. “It’s whether _he_ wants to see _me_.”

He yelped at the hard smack Yennefer inflicted on his knee.

“Of course he does, you birdbrain! Nilfgaardian soldiers were hunting him and Ciri, and he fought them off for a solid week before I found them. And he couldn’t find _you_.”

“But—”

Jaskier yelped again at the even harder smack to his knee.

“He wasn’t angry that you’re here! He was angry that I chose not to tell him you’re here.” While Jaskier’s stupefied mind tried to wrap itself around those statements, she added, “In fact, I didn’t tell him a thing about you.”

He blinked at her.

“Why?”

She gave his belly another very pointed glance.

“Jaskier, he may not be able to handle the sight of you like this. Much less the truth.”

He glanced down at his belly. His baby chose that moment to wriggle, and he rubbed the swell of his belly from top to bottom, a crestfallen smile quirking up his lips.

He hated that Yennefer might also be right about this. Hated that he had no cue for Geralt’s potential reactions to his pregnancy, his baby. No way of learning them without revealing his condition to the witcher first.

Yennefer could see with her magic that the baby _looked_ human. She was always reminding him of that specific detail. Neither of them knew for a certainty whether his baby was actually human. How could they, when they still hadn’t identified the entity responsible for the magical pregnancy? A portion of Jaskier was terrified that his baby really wasn’t human. That the growing being in him was—some sort of novel creature. Perhaps one that would someday become akin to those Geralt hunted and killed, although human-looking and intelligent.

But Jaskier _loved_ his baby.

He loved his little, sweet baby no matter what.

And no matter what anyone else would say or think, he knew his little, sweet baby loved him in return.

“Well.” He raised his head high and looked Yennefer in the eye. “He’ll just have to accept it. And me, like this.”

That wicked smirk graced Yennefer’s lips once more.

“Or you’ll rip his throat out with your teeth?”

This time, his smile was wry.

“I certainly hope it won’t come to that.”

He could never bear to harm Geralt. He would rather die than do that, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

“So _do_ you want to see him?”

He was grateful for the choice. He gave Yennefer a glance that conveyed that, then gazed at the bedroom’s shut door.

Even now, he felt the relentless pull within his chest.

Even now, he felt the inescapable, inevitable current that was Geralt of Rivia pulling at his heart, his soul. Pulling him back to Geralt’s side, where he belonged.

“Yes,” he rasped. “I want to be with him.”

Yennefer didn’t deride his quiet declaration: it was the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, how dare Jaskier still think that Geralt may potentially hurt his baby?! 
> 
> Well, he'll find out for a certainty what Geralt's reaction to his pregnancy is in the next update. Which will be very soon. Oh yes, more Geraskier feels are on the way to slay!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something tells me that maybe, _just_ maybe, this is the update y'all have been waiting for. *grin* 
> 
> Thank you so very much for your comments, kudos, and bookmarks! 💕 I love you guys. I hope you'll enjoy this installment too.
> 
> Soundtrack: [The Apple of My Eye, by Ólafur Arnalds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=av6DCc90_xQ).
> 
> Let's kick this update off with one of the funniest Geraskier exchanges in the show:  
> 

It was when Jaskier reached the foot of the wooden staircase that he realized he’d chosen a glittering, gold ensemble of a cropped jacket and pleated tunic that very much resembled the attire he’d worn to Pavetta’s betrothal feast in Cintra. The cropped jacket, however, was far more spectacular, with its lustrous gold jewels and embroidered motifs of sprays of flowers, leaves, and songbirds.

It had to be, to hopefully distract Geralt from his gravid belly.

The arched entrance to the grandiose dining room was the first on the right of the long, wide passageway. He watched Yennefer stride ahead to the entrance and through it without glancing back, leaving him alone at the foot of the staircase. Giving him the opportunity to compose himself without an audience.

Giving him no option of using the sorceress as a shield to hide behind.

He didn’t know whether to hate her or love her for it.

He also didn’t know whether to hate her or love her for refusing to heal his red-rimmed eyes.

 _Let Geralt see them as they are, Jaskier,_ she’d said. _Let him see you._

He sauntered down the passageway, and halted a foot before the entrance of the dining room. He could hear Yennefer speaking to Princess Cirilla, asking her if she was still hungry and wanted more of the sugar-glazed fish fillets. The princess had a mellow voice, like honey poured on baked bread. It was the extreme opposite of Geralt’s deep, gravelly voice, and he was treated to an audio-comparison when Geralt grumbled for another plate of roasted chicken and scalloped potatoes.

Jaskier smiled softly to himself, where no one could see it. Geralt always did have a humongous appetite when abundant food was available. Geralt had once told him that his body was able to hoard energy for weeks from a single binge-eating session, and that it was the result of one of the various enigmatic experiments he’d been subjected to as a boy at Kaer Morhen.

It was just one of so many intriguing facets of the handsome, white-haired witcher.

Twenty years since their first meeting in Posada, and still, Geralt captivated him.

Jaskier inhaled slow and steady, then exhaled even slower out his mouth. He waited for a lull in the conversation between Yennefer and Princess Cirilla. Waited to hear nothing but sounds of metal utensils scraping on ceramic plates.

His baby wiggled in his belly.

He felt that wave of warmth radiating through him, soothing him.

He strode forward and turned into the dining room, and came to an elegant halt several steps in. The other occupants of the room turned their heads in unison to gaze at him.

He glanced at Yennefer first, who was facing Geralt and Princess Cirilla, standing behind a chair tucked under the table and grasping its florid top rail: she smirked at him, her eyes crinkled and twinkling with wicked mirth. He glanced next at Princess Cirilla, who was seated to Geralt’s left and dressed in an embroidered, dark green dress: she gave him a genuine, welcoming smile that only a dignified princess could.

He gave her a smile in greeting that was equally genuine. A smile that bore no artifice or flattery, that a silver-tongued viscountess had described as a beam of morning sunshine spreading across a field of golden dandelions.

A metal utensil clattered onto the polished surface of the long dining table, as if it dropped from a loose hand.

Geralt’s sharp, indrawn breath was as loud as the clashing of sword blades in the hush.

It wrenched Jaskier’s gaze away from Princess Cirilla and made his smile waver. His wide-eyed gaze alighted on Geralt—and their eyes met across the width of the table, pulled together by a force more fervid than all the turbulent currents in the sea.

Once more, Jaskier was pinned to the spot by the intensity of Geralt’s large, amber eyes staring at his face. His breath hitched deep in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, and he resisted the urge to clench them. He locked his knees and prayed that they wouldn’t buckle.

He swallowed hard.

His lips parted, and he said with what he hoped wasn’t a hoarse voice, “Hello, Geralt.”

Their eyes remained locked as Geralt gradually stood to full height, a majestic presence that outshone everyone and everything else around him. His long hair was untied, middle-parted and tucked behind his ears. Already his witcher healing had kicked in, removing those dark bags from under his eyes, and rejuvenating his gaunt face with the food he was devouring. He’d shaved in the time between his arrival to the manor and this meal. He was dressed in a dark grey linen shirt, and black trousers clinched by a brown leather belt. The collar of his shirt was so low that it exhibited that broad, hirsute chest down to the lower sternum, and that round medallion of a wolf baring its fangs that he never removed.

Jaskier still desired so much to card his fingers through those dark grey curls, to nuzzle them. To feel their possessor’s languid heartbeat under his palm. To feel that heartbeat quickening, because of his touch.

Jaskier’s eyelids flickered as Geralt scrutinized his face. It felt to him as if Geralt was doing it inch by inch, lingering on his eyes, his lips. He didn’t think his face had changed all that much, apart from his lengthening, thickening eyelashes and plumped lips. He’d always been clean-shaven. He’d always appeared younger than his actual age.

And it was scarcely the first time Geralt had seen his eyes after he had a good cry. He was a bard, a storyteller—it was imperative to his work that he was swimming in emotions up to the crown of his head at any given time.

But Geralt hadn’t seen him in over three months.

Three months was a great deal of time during a pregnancy.

Jaskier’s breath hitched in his throat a second time when Geralt’s eyes fell on his rotund belly. Like he expected, Geralt’s eyes widened with shock. Geralt stared with those wide eyes at it for what had to be longest second of Jaskier’s life, then raised that head of silken, white hair to stare at his face again.

Geralt’s full lips parted, and the witcher said one word, one name with that deep, gravelly, so very sensual voice.

“Jaskier.”

Inside his leather shoes, Jaskier’s toes curled in.

Oh, what a stupid, _stupid_ imagination he had, planting such cruel specks of hope in him—that he would even think for a fleeting instant that Geralt had said his name as if it encompassed Geralt’s whole world.

Geralt stared at his belly once more.

“Fuck,” Geralt mumbled.

Jaskier finally lowered his eyes from Geralt’s face. He stared at Geralt’s half-full plate, at the fork fallen on its side next to it on the table, and told himself to breathe.

Well, there it was: Geralt’s reaction, every time destiny decided to fuck with his life, and fuck it on an apocalyptic scale.

But—Geralt hadn’t said the word like a profanity. Geralt hadn’t said it with disappointment, or resentment. If anything, Geralt had said it as if his entire world had flipped itself on its axis, as if he’d been clonked on the head with a sledgehammer and hadn’t quite registered the blow yet.

Who could blame the witcher, really?

Jaskier couldn’t: it wasn’t everyday that a pregnant man showed up and said hello to Geralt. Especially when said pregnant man was his bard and travel companion of two decades—

No.

Had been. Especially when said pregnant man _had been_ his bard and travel companion, before they’d walked away from each other.

Geralt had said so himself over a decade ago: he didn’t need anyone, and he didn’t want anyone to need him. He’d said he didn’t give a fuck when Jaskier had told him he was going to Oxenfurt to live and work, and the sole reason he’d searched for Jaskier at all in Oxenfurt later was sitting right there to his left, staring at the both of them with those big, bright, emerald green eyes.

Why, if life could give Geralt one blessing, it would be to take Jaskier off his hands.

And life did exactly that, didn’t it?

Jaskier had to remember that—

“Geralt! It’s rude to curse.”

Jaskier gaped at Princess Cirilla who glowered up at Geralt. He gaped at Geralt with even wider eyes when Geralt hung his head and stared down at the table, muttering, “My apologies, Ciri.”

Jaskier pressed the pads of his forefinger and middle finger to his lips. Then he pointed his forefinger at Geralt, and said, “Your Highness, you just scolded the scariest man on the Continent for _swearing_.”

Yennefer, still standing nearby with a lingering smirk, let out a snort that would have been uncouth from anyone else.

“Well, it’s rude. I won’t accept it,” Princess Cirilla replied. “Certainly not towards you.” She glowered up at Geralt again, her eyes narrowed in a startlingly similar way to Yennefer’s. “You swore at _Jaskier!_ You should apologize to him.”

“I wasn’t swearing at—”

Geralt was very wise to break off that protest at Princess Cirilla’s eyes narrowing even more. Jaskier bit his lower lip to suppress the amused smile that threatened to emerge. He never thought he would see the day that a little girl—a princess of Cintra though she was—would tame the legendary White Wolf with a few stern words and an endearing glower.

His mirth waned when Geralt raised his head and squared his shoulders, and gazed into his eyes with those beautiful, large, amber ones that still inspired the most devastating dreams in the night.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured.

It was with a voice that Jaskier had never heard from Geralt before: a low, rumbling voice that was almost childlike in its sincerity. A deferential voice, that supplicated him for what he alone could give the witcher.

Jaskier stared back. He breathed through a throat that was now a pinhole. He felt a muscle spasm in his lower jaw, but no, it wasn’t anger at all that caused him to grit his teeth, or to blink hard to stave off the stinging heat behind his eyes.

Geralt wasn’t apologizing for the mumbled curse.

Jaskier was keenly aware of Princess Cirilla and Yennefer observing him and Geralt, of how he must appear to them all right now. He could mete out pain to Geralt with a few choice words. Hurt Geralt like Geralt’s words had hurt him months ago. Many disillusioned romantics would say that he had every right to lash out.

But he could never bear to harm Geralt in any way.

His heart, splintered though it had been at the time, had already forgiven Geralt before the door of that inn room clicked shut.

“Apology accepted,” he rasped, and he meant it unconditionally.

Geralt’s shoulders loosened. His face softened in understanding, in acknowledgement of Jaskier’s forgiveness—and Jaskier committed the precious vision to memory, storing it for safekeeping in its own room in his mental palace, so rare as it was. He told himself that Geralt was glad to receive his pardon. That maybe, just maybe, the exquisite softening of those alluring features was also due to Geralt being so glad to see him again, to know that he still cared for Geralt. Just charming, heart-aching tidbits of imagination for himself.

“You _are_ Jaskier the bard, aren’t you? You sing all the time about Geralt.”

It took a whopping effort for Jaskier to wrest his gaze away from Geralt’s face. He gazed at Princess Cirilla, at her earnest expression, and he smiled at her again.

“Indeed I am, Princess Cirilla.”

He stepped up to the dining table and gripped the top rail of the nearest chair with both hands. He needed all the support he could get, with the way Geralt was staring at his face as if—as if he was all that Geralt could see.

Gods, his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ imagination. So bloody stubborn in planting more specks of hope in him when all they did was _maim_ him.

“Please, call me Ciri.”

Jaskier dipped his head in courtesy. “Ciri.”

Princess Cirilla— _Ciri_ truly had a winsome smile.

“Geralt speaks all the time about you.”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt with wide eyes. Geralt averted his gaze before their eyes could meet again.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, and replied, “Oh, I know, he must have complained _so_ much about my incessant chattering, and my _filling-less_ singing, and my ludicrous tastes in clothing.”

Ciri frowned at him in confusion.

“No.” She shook her head, still frowning. “Geralt never complained about you.” She glanced up at Geralt, her eyes glinting with warmth. “He was so determined to find you. He said he really mi—”

“Ciri. Please.”

Geralt was staring down at the table again, his broad shoulders still slumped, his expression shuttered. Jaskier stared at him, dumbfounded by the plea that was palpable in those two words. His hands tightened on the top rail of the chair.

_What did you say to her? Was it about me?_

_Tell me, Geralt. I want to know._

Ciri stared at Geralt. Then she stared at Jaskier, her expression now of contemplation. When she stared at Geralt again, it was with a tender expression that Jaskier could only describe as—sympathetic.

What was _that_ all about?

Yennefer let out what sounded like a huff of amusement. But when Jaskier glanced at her, she was gazing at Ciri with those atypical, soft eyes, as if Ciri was all that she could see.

“Jaskier, you sang at my parents’ betrothal feast in Cintra.”

Jaskier nodded. “I did.”

“Mother and Father said it was the happiest day of their lives, because Father’s curse was broken. And because they found out they were going to have me.”

Once more, Jaskier’s eyes were pulled to Geralt’s face. His breath caught in his chest at Geralt already gazing back at him, still standing, his meal completely forgotten. Geralt’s hair was much longer now than it’d been at Duny and Pavetta’s wedding ceremony. There were more scars now on Geralt’s body and limbs, just like there were more scars on Jaskier’s, in the years since.

They were older now. They were more experienced.

They still lived, while Duny and Pavetta were dead.

“Geralt and I were there when it happened,” Jaskier murmured, still gazing into the witcher’s unblinking eyes.

“Yes.” Ciri glanced up at Geralt, her eyes twinkling. “I’m his Child Surprise.” Ciri glanced at Jaskier, then Yennefer, then Geralt yet again, her eyes still twinkling. “Mother told me about how Grandmother was _so_ opposed to her marrying Father, that she actually ordered Geralt to slay him! Geralt refused to. Because Father might have looked like a monster, but he was never one.”

Inside Jaskier’s belly, his baby wriggled. Jaskier pressed his right hand to its lower swell, an automatic gesture at this point. The action drew Geralt’s eyes to his belly. Geralt’s face was impassive as he stared at it.

Geralt was doubtless wondering what was growing inside him, when no human man was supposed to bear children.

Would Geralt demonstrate the same mercy to his baby, if his baby turned out to look like a monster, but was never one? If his baby turned out to look human, but wasn’t human?

Jaskier stared at Geralt’s familiar, handsome face—and hoped, with every beat of his persevering heart.

“Grandmother said—she said—”

Ciri’s eyes were glazing over. Her face had become a blank mask, devoid of any emotion or motion.

“That witch said—” Her voice was monotone, an eerie ghost of what it’d been mere seconds ago. “She—she said they just—they cut Grandmother’s flesh from her broken corpse, after she killed herself. And they ate it.” She stared ahead at nothing. “Like Grandmother was an animal.”

Her lips started to quiver.

Her face stayed a blank mask.

Yennefer stared at Ciri with wide violet eyes, but stood as motionless as a statue. Geralt lifted a callused, large hand towards Ciri’s head, but it hovered above the riot of ashen-grey hair, as if Geralt was afraid that his touch would hurt the girl.

Jaskier’s feet moved on their own volition. He strode around the table, past Geralt, then pulled out the chair to Ciri’s left, sitting carefully on it.

“Ciri?”

She didn’t respond to him, not until he risked placing a hand on the ball of her shoulder. He swallowed down a gasp when she pivoted in her seat and wrapped her arms tight around his chest, tucking her head under his chin. He wrapped his arms as tightly around her shoulders, petting her head, exhaling shushing noises of commiseration although she made nary a sound.

Jaskier’s cropped jacket remained dry where her cheek rested.

He didn’t know how long he sat there with the princess of Cintra in his embrace. She didn’t seem perturbed in the least by his gravid belly, for she snuggled into his side, and let him hug her. She was a princess, but she was also just a child. Just a baby, really, compared to Geralt, and Yennefer, and even him.

And her whole family was dead.

Murdered. Desecrated. Left to rot where they lied.

She would have to live with that knowledge, that loss for the rest of her life.

He rubbed circles on her upper back, then murmured, “Are you still hungry, Ciri, hm?”

Her breaths were sluggish. She said nothing, but she nodded against his chest, then sat back and turned to face the table again. She picked up a spoon from her plate. She resumed eating, her movements mechanical, her expression still vacant.

Jaskier glanced at Yennefer to see the gratitude in her eyes gone soft once more. He gave her a small, somber smile. Then he glanced at Geralt, and saw that Geralt was sitting down again, gazing at Ciri with a benevolent expression that made a wave of warmth radiate from his chest instead of his belly.

Oh, to have Geralt gaze at his baby the same way.

Jaskier stared down at his hands on the table, and told himself to _breathe_.

Yennefer’s servants brought numerous bowls and plates of food to the table, but Jaskier’s attention was altogether concentrated on Geralt as he spooned whatever it was on his plate into his mouth. He could sense Geralt staring at him over Ciri’s head. If Geralt paused in the staring, it was just to shovel more food into his mouth before doing so again.

Did he appear so _uncanny_ to Geralt now?

He would have thought the witcher would be staring much more at his belly than his face.

“Geralt. It’s rude to stare.”

Yennefer, seated opposite Ciri, was glowering at Geralt, but her eyes had that wicked twinkle in them, and her plump lips were quirked up in amusement. Geralt narrowed his eyes at her and growled deep in his chest—and Ciri covered her mouth with a hand and giggled.

Jaskier smiled to himself, and used every whit of willpower he had to not glance over Ciri’s head to meet Geralt’s fervent eyes.

“Jaskier,” Ciri said, after the servants had cleared the table of their empty bowls and plates, “will you sing to me at bedtime?”

Jaskier almost said no: nobody else at the table knew it, but he had not sung since Yennefer teleported him here. He’d been too distressed to even _think_ about singing for the first two months. By the time he’d attempted to hold his lute to play it, his belly was too big. At most, he’d hummed to his baby in the privacy of his bedroom, wordless tunes that in no way reminded him of the witcher who was, once again, staring at his face.

He would be a total liar if he claimed that he wasn’t basking in Geralt’s unwavering regard.

He gave Ciri an apologetic smile, and said, “I’m afraid I can’t hold my lute anymore.”

“That’s all right.” Her smile was slight compared to her previous ones, but no less genuine. “Your voice is enough. It’s just—” She lowered her eyes. “Father always sang to me.”

Well, how could he deny her after that?

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

In the candlelit, cozy dimness of Ciri’s bedroom, Jaskier sat on the side of her bed and sang every lullaby that came to mind. She was tucked under a brown fleece blanket, her hair coiled over one shoulder, her eyes half-lidded. She stared at him all the while. He wasn’t unsettled at all by it, for a bard had to be accustomed to numerous eyes fixed upon him throughout a musical performance, and the more eyes there were, the more orens he could earn.

The one pair of eyes that could slice through all his defenses, that made his legs wobbly and his heart hammer with naught but a look, wasn’t here in this room.

The one pair of eyes that was here staring back at him were big, emerald green ones instead of amber—and if they welled up when he sang about a mother’s kiss and a father’s smile, if they spilled tears down smooth temples when he sang about a mother’s loving embrace, and a father’s promise to always be there, he didn’t point it out. He supposed that in return, she didn’t point out the huskiness of his voice, or the way he blinked his eyes when they stung.

He sang, and sang, until Ciri’s damp eyes were shut and her chest rose and fell with stable breaths.

He sat where he was, gazing at her tranquil face. She was going to have nightmares. If what she’d blurted out in the dining room was true, she was going to have nightmares for a long time. But she was safe now, here in Yennefer’s manor, under the sorceress’s protection.

She was safe the moment Geralt was destined to be her guardian witcher.

Jaskier tugged the blanket higher so that it covered her neck and kept her warmer. He sucked in a shuddering breath at the realization that in a few months, he was going to tuck a blanket around his own baby. He was going to sing to his baby boy, just like he sang to Ciri. Cuddle him in his arms. Brush his gossamer hair with his fingers, and kiss all his tears and nightmares away.

His baby. His little, sweet baby boy, who he would always love, no matter what he was.

He ran a hand down the bulge of his belly. He pushed himself off the bed with both hands and stood up slowly. He rubbed a knuckle across his eyes, then shuffled to the open door.

He was so preoccupied with shutting the door noiselessly that he didn’t notice he wasn’t alone in the passageway. Then he turned around.

“Oh, Geralt!” He clutched at his chest, gasping once. “You scared me.”

Geralt was in the same clothes he’d worn in the dining room. His hair was still untied, although it was now tucked behind one ear while the other side cascaded down like a veil. He had a contrite expression that tugged at Jaskier’s heart, for it was another expression that he’d so rarely seen on the witcher’s face.

How long had Geralt been standing out here in the passageway? Why hadn’t Geralt shown himself, if he’d been here for some time?

It couldn’t possibly be because Geralt wanted to listen to him _sing_.

Why, Geralt was the one who’d insulted his singing by saying it was “like ordering pie and finding it had no filling”. Hmph!

“May I—walk you to your room?”

Jaskier gaped at Geralt, his lips parted, his hand still pressed to his chest. Not once, not _once_ in their entire acquaintance, had Geralt asked him such a question. Much less with that level of courteousness. He was _this_ close to asking Geralt whether he was a sneaky doppler or not, and make Geralt touch something silver—well, like that wolf medallion that dangled in the groove between those hair-dusted, rock-hard pectorals.

But today was a day of many firsts.

Today was the day he met Geralt’s Child Surprise, and fell in love with her like Geralt and Yennefer had. Today was the day Geralt apologized for the wounding words snarled in an inn room far away and long ago.

Today was the day the true love of his life returned to him.

Jaskier lowered his hand to his side. He pursed his lips. Inhaled sharply and exhaled quietly, then murmured, “Yes.”

Geralt walked beside him all the way. His room was on the opposite side of the manor from Geralt’s, and Ciri’s room was nearer to Geralt’s, and so the journey felt as if it was too long and also too short: they were separated by a hand’s breadth of space despite the generous width of the passageway. Geralt’s hand was inches away from his. He could feel the heat emanating from Geralt’s muscular, solid body, swathing him like a snug blanket. Every time he glanced at Geralt’s face, he would find Geralt already gazing at him as intensely as he had throughout dinner.

It was absolute _torment_ to not be able to reach across the inches of space between them to grasp Geralt’s hand.

Geralt was just walking him to his room, nothing more.

Geralt only saw him as a—a friend. Nothing more. He had to remember that.

Geralt stood in the doorway after Jaskier entered the room, and it took him a minute to realize that Geralt was waiting for his permission to come in. Geralt had never done that before. Geralt never had to: they’d always shared a room in an inn. Shared the bed in it, to save orens for other necessities like food, or a bath. If they were on the road, or in the woods, they slept side by side in their bedrolls, with Jaskier between the campfire and the witcher.

In the twenty years of knowing Geralt, they’d never bade each other farewell—knowing they were going to see each other again, whether it was in a few hours, or a few days, or weeks, or the very infrequent months apart.

After the initial awkwardness of Jaskier trailing after Geralt in Posada and refusing to desert the witcher even after that gut-punch, the lines between their spaces, their lives, began to blur. Then over the years, the decades, those blurred lines faded.

Until that day in Gulet.

Now the lines were back, demarcating where they could go, who they could be. The lines were stopping Jaskier from reaching for Geralt’s hand, stopping Geralt from walking into Jaskier’s space. A space that was Geralt’s, too, really—if only Geralt looked at him, and saw him, truly _saw_ him.

Jaskier hated those lines twenty years ago. He hated them even more now, when Geralt was so near, and yet so far away from him.

“Geralt,” he murmured, obliterating as many of those lines as he could.

The witcher’s name was a luscious thing on his tongue, here as he stood at the foot of the bed, facing the doorway.

Geralt glanced at him with eyes that reminded him of that floppy-eared puppy he’d come across in the gardens. With halting steps, Geralt walked into his bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. He watched Geralt survey the room out of old habit, with a frown and fierce eyes, rooting out any potential threats and finding none. Geralt’s gaze lingered on the sumptuous bed. On the white fleece blankets thick like a wolf’s fur.

Geralt sauntered closer to him, until there was six feet of space between them. Geralt’s frown dissolved when he noticed the lute on the writing desk: the undeniable proof that this was Jaskier’s bedroom.

Jaskier gestured at it with a hand, and said, “I can’t play it until I give birth, but I still have to clean and maintain it.”

Geralt’s wide eyes whipped to his face, staring at him so hard that he bit his lower lip and lowered his eyes to floor. Then he looked Geralt in the eye again, squaring his shoulders. Geralt’s stare eased into a heavy-lidded gaze that was no less potent in sending shivers of longing and lust down Jaskier’s spine.

“I—” Geralt cleared his throat. “I asked Yennefer what happened to you. She told me to ask you for myself.”

Jaskier drew in an audible breath. It left his lungs as a shaky sigh. He lowered his eyes again and raised his hands up to his chest, clenching them into loose fists, pressing one on top of the other over his breastbone. It unintentionally made his folded arms frame his round belly.

He glanced to the side. Down at the floor. To the side, again.

“If you haven’t already guessed,” he said, raising his eyes to the notch between Geralt’s collarbones, “I’m—pregnant.” He cleared his throat loudly. “Uhm. Se-seven months along. That’s what Yennefer said.”

He stiffened from head to toe. His fists tightened until his nails burrowed into his palms. He waited for Geralt to scoff. Or laugh with disbelief. Or spin and march out the door without a word, too disgusted now to look at him for another second.

Geralt did none of those things.

Geralt stared at him with those intense, wide eyes. Geralt was wearing that same expression when he’d mumbled, “Fuck,” while staring at his belly: that sledgehammer-to-the-head look, as if he’d been pummeled by a revelation too tremendous to comprehend yet.

“The botchling. It really was targeting you.”

Jaskier nodded. He swallowed hard, remembering the horrid monster’s claws pricking his skin. Geralt stared at his belly, and he could see the calculations and deductions whirring in Geralt’s mind from the way Geralt’s brows furrowed, the way Geralt’s face slackened when he reached a conclusion.

“You weren’t— _showing_ when you told me you were moving to—” Geralt paused, then said with a subdued voice, with eyes that were unshielded, “This is— _this_ is why you left me.”

Jaskier had to swallow past a jagged lump in his throat before he could give Geralt a jerky nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice cracking.

_I will never, ever tire of you._

_I would walk by your side for as long as you’ll have me, to the edges of the world, and beyond—and I’ll sing your praises, and proliferate your worshippers, and do everything in my power to give you what you wish for._

He didn’t say any of that, even when he could trust his voice again. The question that Geralt asked him rendered him speechless.

“Do you—” Geralt lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. “Do you know who—the other father is?”

Jaskier’s mouth hung open, then closed. He sucked in his lips. He felt his entire face heat up. He dipped his head, glanced down, and saw that Geralt’s hands were clenched at his sides. So tautly, that his knuckles were white.

Was Geralt angry? At him?

Jaskier glanced at Geralt’s face, but no anger darkened it. On the contrary, Geralt looked—dismayed. He looked as if he was fortifying himself for a vicious blow to his body. A fatal blow.

Did Jaskier know who the _other father_ of his baby was?

_No, I don’t._

_But, oh my witcher—I wish it’s you._

“Uhm, no, n-no, I don’t know. No!” Jaskier let out what he suspected was a hysterical laugh. He pressed his palms to his flushed cheeks. “Just so you know, I didn’t have sex with anyone, or participate in—in some dark magic _orgy_ —or—or! _Ugh!_ ”

He flung his hands up in the air. He could feel his face sizzling, even more when he saw Geralt’s baffled expression. It was an improvement from that pitiful expression of dismay.

 _Gods_ , he couldn’t recall the last time he had sex with anyone that wasn’t Geralt in his dreams. It should have told him something about the magnitude of his desire, his _love_ for Geralt, that at some point in the past few years, he stopped wasting his time half-heartedly fucking other people who weren’t Geralt.

What was the point, when no one else could ever compare to the bold, handsome, _perfect_ witcher?

“This!” He gestured at his belly with both hands, then waved his hands frenziedly in the air. “Just happened!”

Poor Geralt appeared even more baffled now, his forehead creased, his hands open and loose at his sides.

“Hmmn?”

Jaskier was so love-struck, just so bloody love-struck for this man, that he had missed hearing that _grunt_ so much.

He rolled his eyes at himself, then said, “Okay, no, it didn’t _just_ happen. I know _something_ caused it, but Yennefer and I still don’t know how, or what did this to me. Or why.” His chest heaved with a ponderous sigh. “It would just be my luck some barmy bastard got a hold of a djinn or some other magical entity, and _wished_ this on me, gods know why!”

He rolled his eyes again. Glanced at Geralt—and blinked hard, his eyes widening.

Oh, if Geralt had that sledgehammer-to-the-head look before, he now looked as if an anvil or two were dropped on his head straight after the sledgehammer. Geralt’s eyes were so wide that Jaskier could see the whites around those brilliant amber irises.

He murmured, “Geralt?”

Geralt blinked, then blinked again.

Jaskier took a step forward, frowning with concern.

“Geralt? Are you all right?”

The shock melted away from Geralt’s face. In its place was an expression that seemed to be an amalgam of astonishment, incredulity, and—something else that Jaskier couldn’t recognize. Something that made Geralt’s eyelids flicker over glistening eyes. Made his throat bob with a visible swallow.

“Seven months, you said,” Geralt rasped.

“Yes.” Jaskier resisted the urge to reach for the witcher’s hands, to clasp them. “I don’t know the how or the what or the why, but I think I know when. And where.”

Geralt was leveling that intense gaze at him once more.

“In that forest,” Jaskier said. “When we were traveling to Belhaven seven months ago.”

He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been so avidly watching Geralt: Geralt’s whole body stiffened, turning him into a living statue.

“Explain,” Geralt said with a low voice, and it brooked no disobedience.

Jaskier rubbed at his belly with both hands. His baby was wriggling, probably waking up from a nap.

“The night we stayed there, I—I woke up with severe pain in my belly. It just—struck me out of nowhere. It was the worst pain I’d felt yet. Worse than when the djinn attacked my throat near Rinde.” Geralt’s expression didn’t change, and Jaskier said, “It was so bad that all I could do was lie there on my side, trying to breathe.” He shook his head. “I—I could _feel_ my insides moving, Geralt. Like something was— _changing_ me inside.”

Geralt growled, “Why didn’t you tell me about it that morning?”

Jaskier huffed, and scowled back at the witcher.

“Well, I—I thought it was a nightmare! I even checked my belly after I woke up, and nothing was odd then!” He huffed a second time. “You _saw_ me doing it!”

Geralt seemed to wilt like a flower under a blistering sun. He gazed down at Jaskier’s belly with heavy-lidded eyes, his lips pressed into a thin, pale line.

“And yet,” Geralt rasped, “here we are.”

Jaskier rubbed his belly again when he felt his baby roll. He gazed at Geralt’s face, his own features softening with a tiny, nostalgic smile, remembering Geralt in a wooden bathtub in a Cintran inn over a decade ago. Remembering himself kneeling at the foot of the bathtub, propping his forearms on its rim, and saying those exact words to Geralt.

_Here we are, again._

“Where were you that night?” Jaskier murmured. “You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Geralt slowly raised his head to return his gaze. Geralt’s poignant, wide-eyed frown brought forth a lump to Jaskier’s already constricted throat. Geralt’s lips parted, and—

The baby kicked at Jaskier’s bladder.

Hard.

The burst of pain made Jaskier wince just as hard. Made him groan, and clutch at his belly with both hands. Oh, _oh_ , that was a bad one. Oh, there was that terrible need to piss now— _and_ there it went, _away_ , thank the fucking gods. He couldn’t imagine how _humiliating_ pissing himself in front of Geralt would be.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt had stepped closer, shrinking the distance between them to two feet. He’d raised those callused, large hands towards Jaskier, and they hovered in the air, hesitating to touch him.

“I—I’m okay, Geralt.” He showed Geralt what he hoped was a reassuring smile, still clutching at his belly. “He does that sometimes. Kicks me hard in all the wrong places.” His smile widened into a proud one. “Goodness, he kicks strong. Just like—”

_Just like you._

“A boy?” Geralt was staring at him with those intense, wide eyes yet again, his voice gone even more deep and gravelly. “The baby’s a boy?”

Jaskier blew out a breath, rubbed at his lower belly, and replied, “It’s—just a gut feeling. But I’m pretty sure, yes, a boy.” His proud smile reinstated itself. “He’s big, for one. Still got two months to go, and I already feel like a fruit about to burst.”

His breath locked itself in his lungs when Geralt took another step forward. When Geralt’s right hand seemed to move on its own volition towards his belly. It hovered inches away from its upper swell. As if Geralt was afraid that his touch alone would hurt Jaskier.

Jaskier’s hands also moved on their own volition. They seized Geralt’s hand. Pressed it firmly to his belly below his navel, and Jaskier felt the jolt of surprise that shook Geralt’s arm.

They both felt the baby wriggling in excitement.

If Yennefer had been wonderstruck by the sensation, Geralt looked as if his whole world had been flipped on its axis once more, and he was still soaring through the air, and he was never going to come back down to the earth again. And if Yennefer’s reaction had affected Jaskier—Geralt’s reaction destroyed him.

Geralt’s eyes glazed over. His hand pressed harder to Jaskier’s belly. His entire face eased into an innocent, radiant expression, and Jaskier had a priceless glimpse of the boy Geralt had been multiple lifetimes ago, before his mother abandoned him to Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s lips quivered at the ends, as if he wanted to smile with gratification—but had forgotten how.

Jaskier committed this precious vision to memory as well, storing it for safekeeping in another room in his mental palace, knowing that only death will erase it. He told himself that Geralt was elated to feel his son’s movements under his hand for the first time. He told himself that maybe, just maybe, the baby was really Geralt’s, because somewhere out there, there was a god that was still merciful, still vigilant for pleas from a splintered heart.

Just more charming, heart-rending tidbits of imagination for himself, for when Geralt stepped back from him, stepped out the room.

Stepped out of his life.

He blinked, and blinked—and with his stinging eyes, it took him far too long to notice the healing scratches on Geralt’s other arm where the shirt sleeve had ridden up. Far too long, to notice that Geralt had raised that arm and stretched it towards him, and that it hovered in the air, just like his hand had, instead of touching him.

_Nilfgaardian soldiers were hunting him and Ciri, and he fought them off for a solid week before I found them._

_And he couldn’t find **you**._

Geralt was gazing at him again with those large, amber eyes. Wordlessly supplicating him for what he alone could give the witcher, after harrowing months on the run from the Nilfgaardian army with a young princess in tow: his permission to hug him.

He gazed back at Geralt through searing, wet eyes.

“You won’t break me,” he rasped, his lips curving up into tremulous smile. “It’ll take so much more than your arms to do that to me.”

Geralt’s lips curved up into a small, amused smile. Jaskier breathed, and breathed, but when Geralt’s brawny arms enfolded him and pulled him tight to that muscular, solid, warm body, all his air was lost. His arms slid around Geralt’s torso and squeezed as hard as they could. His hands scrabbled at Geralt’s linen shirt. He pressed his damp cheek, his ear to Geralt’s chest, and _there_ , there it was, Geralt’s heartbeat, pulsating in time with his.

_Oh, how I have missed you, my white wolf._

_Here you are._

_Here we are, together again._

He was drowning in the inescapable, inevitable current that was Geralt—but beneath the frothing, rolling waves, in the rich blueness of the sea, it was no different from soaring through the rich blueness of the sky. Geralt’s hand on his nape steadied him. Geralt’s hand on his lower back shored him. His rotund belly was snug in the space between their bodies.

He was drowning. He was soaring.

He was here, in the shelter of Geralt’s embrace. In his witcher’s all-encompassing protection.

He was safe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next update: what, you all thought that's all the talking the two idiots in love are gonna do? Nay, I say!
> 
> Questions will be answered! Geralt will finally use his words, and so will Jaskier! Words, words, words.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I return to update the story, your bookmarks, comments, and kudos totally make my day. 💝 I love y'all. Seriously. I hope that you'll enjoy this particular installment as well!
> 
> This update clocks in at almost 9000 words, and it took longer than previous updates because I was doing research about medieval cooking, and because I wanted to get the Big Conversation absolutely right for the story's biggest wave of Geraskier feels yet. Who knew Geralt and Jaskier had so many words for each other, eh?

In the morning, as the sun dawned, Jaskier awoke alone in his bedroom. He lied on his side under the fleece blankets. He let out a soundless sigh into the pillow. His baby was slumbering in his belly, quiescent. He rubbed a hand down the swell under his navel, and a bittersweet smile curled his lips while he relived the press of another callused, much larger hand on the same area.

_Geralt._

He wasn’t surprised that Geralt wasn’t present. He hadn’t expected Geralt to stay for the night. All he’d requested, as he’d snuggled under the blankets, as Geralt stood next to the bed, was that the witcher stayed with him until he fell asleep.

Geralt had sat down on the side of the bed, near his knees. In the candlelight, Geralt’s amber eyes had seemed to glow, and Jaskier had gazed into them until his eyelids fluttered shut. He’d tumbled into slumber so fast. He’d dreamed of a callused, large hand brushing his hair along his temple and around his ear, that same hand caressing his cheek with a gentleness that no one would believe its possessor was capable of expressing.

It had been a beautiful dream.

Just a dream.

He didn’t have the right to ask Geralt to sleep in the bed with him: there was so much to discuss, so much to learn about the months they’d been separated, and no one knew what was responsible for his pregnancy. Geralt had looked so flabbergasted from the knowledge that it hadn’t involved Jaskier having sex with anyone, that it was downright magical in origin—surely Geralt was wondering who or what had used magic for such a drastic deed.

Surely Geralt was going to keep his distance now, knowing that a mysterious, extremely powerful party was entangled in the situation.

“We’ll take things one day at a time, won’t we, my baby dandelion?”

His smile sweetened at the familiar sensation of his baby wriggling in response, as if greeting him a good morning. The space in his belly was shrinking with every passing day. Yennefer had told him that by the eighth month, the baby would have rotated so the head was pointing down. He didn’t want to think too much about why the baby had to do that in the first place.

On the upside, no more lethal kicks to his bladder. On the downside, the baby’s head was apparently going to be pressing on his bladder all the time. Perhaps he should ask Yennefer to cast some sort of spell that would magically empty his bladder with a word or hand gesture, so he never had to worry about pissing himself in front of anyone.

Then again, after he did accidentally piss himself in front of her yesterday afternoon from his baby’s excited kick, she’d casually commented that he should knit himself a pair of open-crotch trousers. Because she was the bastion of pure depravity like that.

“Okay, here we go. _Up!_ ”

By the gods, it was embarrassing how much effort was required these days just to move. He always slept on his side, and he had to push himself up with his arms while swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, shifting everything together. Then he had to _sit_ up. Then he had to _stand_ up, and—yeah, he was rather glad Geralt wasn’t here to witness him being a gargantuan cow rising on precarious legs with a sonorous grunt.

Two months to go.

And his baby was going to grow _bigger_.

“Yeah, all right.” He blew out a heavy breath, and kept his hand pressed to his lower belly. “Now for the rest of the day.”

After his morning ablutions, dressed in an embroidered, high-collared, sapphire-blue tunic, he took his time walking down the stairs to the ground floor of the manor, then to the isolated wing where the kitchens were located. Unlike the rest of the building, the kitchens were built from stone and brick. They comprised of multiple high-ceilinged rooms with elevated windows, impressive fireplaces, shelves sagging under copious supplies, long wooden worktables bearing an assortment of cooking tools, and walls from which hung dozens of knives, pans, and pots. The stone floors were always clean, swept every day by the servants.

The pantry where the bread and cheese were stored was Jaskier’s destination.

He passed a kitchen room in which some servants were kneading bread, or using their fingers to shape pie crusts. He passed another room in which some servants were preparing poultry with whetted knives.

It was the third room that made him stagger to a halt at its entrance. It was smaller than the other rooms, with a modest fireplace unlike the grand one in the main kitchen that could handle several grills or pots at the same time. It was a room meant for cooking meals for an individual or two rather than a crowd. It had one long worktable, and one square dining table with four chairs. A tall, wide window that commanded a view of the flourishing gardens. A pot heating over the fire.

Standing at the worktable, Geralt was busy at work with a kitchen knife.

Jaskier stood with his eyes and mouth opened wide. He swiveled to face the passageway, snapping his mouth shut. Then he swiveled back to face the room.

Geralt was still there, in a white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and dark brown trousers, his hair tied in his customary half-up, half-down ponytail style. Chopping up what appeared to be a large onion, then slicing a few carrots. Then celery. Then mincing a clove of garlic.

It was when Geralt started in on the potatoes, that he said with that deep, gravelly voice, without glancing up, “Get your arse in here and sit down, Jaskier.”

Jaskier did as he was told: his feet were aching. He had to pass Geralt and the worktable to reach the small dining table. As he did, he glanced down at the other fresh ingredients on the worktable—mushrooms, barley, radishes, dried parsley, a variety of herbs, a generous amount of seasoned ground beef, and an even more generous tankard of ale—and realized that there was enough for at least two people.

Or rather, two men and a baby.

He glanced at Geralt’s face and let a closed-lipped, soft smile spread across his face, but Geralt didn’t look up and continued to prepare their breakfast. He braved the short distance between them and touched Geralt on a bulging bicep, letting his hand linger for several seconds more than he would have dared to months ago.

Geralt grunted, but it was a low, tender sound.

Jaskier’s smile endured as he pulled out a chair and sat down on it, his back to the window. He watched Geralt from behind in the contented silence. He rubbed his upper belly when he felt a nudge there from inside.

_Yes, sweetheart, he does look stunning in the morning sunlight, doesn’t he?_

Geralt had washed and combed his hair. It was evident from the way it shimmered and cascaded down to the middle of the witcher’s back. It had smelled so good last night, when Geralt hugged him and that long, white hair had flowed over his damp face like a comber of the sea.

He’d never seen Geralt cook in a kitchen before. Geralt had roasted hare or deer on a spit over a campfire in front of him countless times, but once they were in a village or town or city, it was far more convenient to order a meal in a tavern. They had never loitered in any one location long enough to have to cook for themselves in an abode that was theirs.

But when he thought about it, there was nothing remarkable about Geralt knowing how to cook. Geralt was over a hundred years old: a fact that continued to astound him if he ruminated too much on it. A century equaled to many, many years for a man to become proficient in just as many skills.

What was so remarkable about Geralt cooking a meal in a kitchen was that Geralt was doing it for _him_ , when the witcher had never done that before.

Had Geralt planned to cook the beef stew and then carry it upstairs in bowls to Jaskier’s bedroom for breakfast in bed?

It was a beautiful thought.

Just a thought. Just another pathetically hopeful tidbit of imagination that was going to maim him when he was alone again.

Geralt saw him as a friend. Geralt had a life outside of the manor’s walls. Geralt had such important work to accomplish as a witcher, no matter how many ignorant idiots feared or hated him for the most nonsensical reasons. Ciri might stay here for the foreseeable future with Yennefer, or at least until the princess was ready to reclaim Cintra—but Jaskier couldn’t envisage Geralt staying here for long.

Weeks, at most.

Or days.

What reason would Geralt have to hang around, now that he knew Jaskier was alive and had forgiven him for those snarled words in Gulet?

“Oh!”

Jaskier rubbed harder at his belly, over the spot where his baby had given him a particularly hard nudge. Geralt had turned around upon hearing his yelp, his hands free, the knife resting on the worktable. Those large, amber eyes were incandescent in the sunlight.

“Are you all right?”

Jaskier nodded and gave Geralt a small, reassuring smile.

“I think he’s decided to practice his punches instead of kicks today.”

Geralt’s lips tremored with mirth. The sight of that was enough to widen Jaskier’s smile into a gratified one in which he poured his innermost emotions for the gorgeous man standing mere feet away from him. It was safer than pouring them into words. Safer still than pouring them into songs.

He could never conceal his longing, nor his heartache, nor his lust when he sang—much less his love.

Geralt’s eyes became heavy-lidded as they gazed on at him, and it was so easy, just so easy, to tell himself that Geralt was gazing at him with love that far transcended friendship.

“You don’t smile like that often,” Geralt murmured.

Jaskier blinked up at him, his smile faltering into one tinged with puzzlement.

“What? What do you mean?”

“When you—” Geralt paused, then gestured at his own mouth, and said, “When you’re singing to a crowd, your smile is different. It’s—muted.” He paused again. “But now, it’s—more. So much more.”

Jaskier’s throat worked in a long swallow that made it ache. He lowered his eyes to the stone floor at Geralt’s feet. For all that Yennefer mocked Geralt’s inability to use his words, Geralt did know how to use them when he brought them into action. Geralt wielded them like his swords: with unerring skill, inflicting the most acute cuts.

“Well, uhm. When I’m singing to a crowd, I—it’s like a mask, you see. Just because my work obliges me to show my face and use my body to perform, it doesn’t mean that—” He sucked in his lower lip, then raised his head to look Geralt in the eye. “It doesn’t mean they have the privilege of seeing who I really am.”

Geralt was still gazing at him with those heavy-lidded, warm eyes.

“Am I looking at a mask now?”

Jaskier pressed his trembling hands flat against his rotund belly.

“No, Geralt,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. “I’ve never been able to wear one around you. Not without a cost too high to myself.”

Geralt’s expression didn’t change, nor did the warmth in his eyes.

Geralt’s next words were so finely honed that Jaskier felt them sink into him with an exquisite agony.

“I should have known, when you looked at me with those wet eyes. When you could have spat a torrent of words at my face, and instead, you shut yourself down into silence.” Geralt glanced down at Jaskier’s belly, and the warmth dimmed into—remorse. “At too high a cost to yourself, indeed.” Geralt gazed at his face once more. “I should have known you better.”

Geralt turned back to the worktable before Jaskier considered his voice steady enough to not crack. He stared at Geralt’s broad back while Geralt resumed preparation work with the kitchen knife. He swallowed hard, then blinked as hard. He concentrated on breathing.

It was such a strange moment for him to fall head over heels in love with Geralt all over again, but he did. It was not so strange a moment for him to see what he should have so long ago, a lifetime ago, when Geralt looked him in the eye and uttered his name for the first time.

There truly was no one who saw him, who _knew_ him, like Geralt did.

He didn’t know what compelled him to stammer the words spilling out of his mouth.

“If—if you could have a baby, and you—you could choose—what they look like—”

He bit hard into his lower lip, and it interrupted the thoughtless flood, the _grievous_ flood. What the fuck was he thinking, asking Geralt a question like that, when all witchers were infertile? When Geralt had never mentioned wanting to settle down with a wife, or wanting a child with said wife?

Geralt seemed to have turned to stone, his spine rigid, his head raised. He didn’t turn around to face Jaskier. He didn’t say a word.

“I—” Jaskier sucked in an audible breath. He rubbed both hands on his belly, and he ignored their ceaseless trembling. “I don’t care what my baby will look like, as—as long as he’s healthy and—happy.”

Geralt remained motionless, but Jaskier knew he was listening to every word.

“I would love him with all my heart. I would love every part of him, for all of my life. I already do.” Jaskier sucked in another breath, a shuddering one. “Every single part, from his teeny toes to his gossamer hair.”

Geralt was still so motionless, and Jaskier didn’t know either what compelled him to say the words that spilled out next, but they felt right. They felt _true_.

“Every white strand of it,” he rasped.

The ensuing silence was so dense that he felt it like a granite block crushing his chest. He stared at Geralt’s back, and Geralt still didn’t turn around, didn’t say a single word. His hands fell to his lap, where they clenched into fists that refused to stop trembling.

It seemed to take an eternity for Geralt to move again. Geralt bowed his head. Resumed his slicing with the kitchen knife that struck the cutting board with an erratic rhythm. Jaskier could almost believe that it was because Geralt’s hand was shaking—but the White Wolf’s hands never shook.

He sucked in yet another shuddering breath.

Oh, of course.

Geralt wasn’t responding to him because Geralt was taking _pity_ on him for saying such _foolish_ things. Pretending he hadn’t heard any of that, and giving him the chance to pretend he hadn’t said any of that. Of course.

Why would Geralt care what his baby looked like, or what he felt about his baby, when Geralt had nothing to do with the baby? Why would Geralt even want a baby with _him?_

What the _fuck_ was he thinking?

He felt a headache brewing in his skull. He felt that familiar congested feeling high up in his nose, and his throat prickling. He pressed his hand on the table top, ready to push himself up to his feet, to blurt out some flimsy excuse and _run_ —

“Blue.”

The tension leached out of his arm, his head, his entire body. He sat back in the chair. He blinked.

He mumbled, “What?”

A sizzling sound was emanating from the pot. Geralt was chucking in what appeared to be chunks of fat, then the meat. It smelled succulent.

“Blue eyes. Blue like the cloudless sky above the sea.”

Geralt’s back was still facing him. Geralt’s voice had gone even deeper, even more gruff.

Geralt scooped up the browned meat from the pot and stored it in a bowl. Geralt sauntered between the worktable and the fireplace, adding other ingredients, sprinkling salt, stirring the mix with a wooden spoon. Moving the pot higher to control its temperature. Pouring in the ale, then stirring some more.

Jaskier stared at him with wide eyes. If he hadn’t known Geralt’s voice like he knew no other, he could have convinced himself that it’d been his imagination that spoke, and not the witcher.

But not in a million years could his imagination have furnished such an answer on Geralt’s behalf.

Of all the colors in existence, Geralt wanted blue eyes for a baby of his own. Not amber, or violet, or emerald green. Blue: a far more common eye color than those.

It _had_ to be a coincidence, just a coincidence, that Jaskier’s eyes were blue.

Jaskier was still bereft of speech when Geralt ladled the beef stew into two large bowls. Geralt didn’t tease him for his anomalous reticence while the stew was served. Both bowls were equally full—which meant that Geralt was taking into account how much more he was eating nowadays for his baby’s sake.

It was such a trifling detail. It really was.

But there Jaskier went, falling in love with the bold, handsome, perfect witcher all over again.

He waited until Geralt was seated perpendicular to him at the table, until Geralt had picked up his metal spoon to eat, to murmur, “Why blue?”

Geralt stared at him with those heavy-lidded, warm eyes. Stared into his eyes, and it seemed to be an answer in itself.

“Why white?” Geralt rasped.

Jaskier lowered his eyes to his bowl of beef stew. It looked and smelled divine. He picked up his own metal spoon with his right hand, and buried the bowl of it into the dark brown gravy.

His left hand was resting on the table top. Geralt’s right forearm was also resting on the table top.

The infinitesimal places where their skin touched, the infinite places where their souls slotted together, flared like the morning sunlight that cocooned them.

Until every scrumptious drop of the beef stew had been consumed at leisure, neither of them spoke. Neither of them shifted away from the other.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

The passageway that led to the manor’s living rooms was aglow with afternoon sunlight streaming through the narrow, tall windows lining the exterior wall. Jaskier ambled alone along its carpeted floor. He could have lazed in the front courtyard with Ciri and the litter of big, floppy-eared puppies she’d discovered at the back of the stables, but—that look Yennefer had given him after lunch in the dining room a half hour ago.

He was dying to know what Geralt had been saying to her at that moment, to know why Geralt had taken her aside and walked them out of his earshot.

“Let’s go find Geralt and Yennefer, hm?”

His baby boy didn’t respond. He was slumbering again, saving up all that energy to grow.

It was probably best that his little, sweet baby was asleep, since his current intention was to sneak his way to wherever the witcher and the sorceress were and, well, keep them under furtive observation for absolutely innocent motives. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him walking down this very passageway, and _absolutely_ nothing wrong with him stumbling upon them while he was at it.

If Geralt got mad at him, he could always blame Yennefer for mouthing “living room” at him behind Geralt, before they’d both left the dining room.

He heard Geralt’s deep, gravelly voice long before he reached the occupied living room, the third and farthest one. The nearer he was, the more intelligible the biting exchange of words between Geralt and Yennefer became. By the time he was leaning back against the wall, two feet away from the living room’s open double doors, he heard everything loud and clear.

“It’s just like you, Geralt. Just like you, to do things the fucking hardest way possible.”

Yennefer’s voice was deceptively placid, like a smooth lake that was a lair to a sadistic beast of long claws and multitudinous fangs.

“Do you think I _wanted_ this to happen to him?”

There was nothing tender about Geralt’s voice now. Not like it’d been mere hours ago, in that small kitchen room, when Jaskier’s fingers had touched Geralt’s forearm, and Geralt hadn’t moved his arm away.

“Yes.” Yennefer snorted. “Or we wouldn’t be here talking about it. Would we?”

The frustrated snarl that ripped from Geralt’s mouth would have petrified a feral wolf in its tracks. His heavy, pacing steps echoed in the room.

Jaskier stared down past the swell of his belly at the ornate carpet. He drew in a noiseless breath. Scrunched the sapphire-blue cloth of his tunic in his hands, at his thighs.

There was no doubt about it: they were talking about him.

“You need to tell him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not, hm? It’s _his_ life that’s on the line here. I thought that would _mean_ something to you—”

“It does, damn you! _Of course it does!_ ”

Anyone else would have jumped a foot into the air at Geralt’s bellow, then scuttled away in terror. But Jaskier already knew he was no ordinary man, when he didn’t fear Yennefer the way everyone else did. He was no ordinary man, to feel such fiery warmth in his chest and smile softly in the bellow’s wake.

He was no ordinary man, to love and be so madly in love with Geralt of Rivia, the most intimidating witcher on the Continent—and be cared for by that same witcher.

“So _tell him_ , you obstinate mule—”

“I _can’t_.”

“Can’t or won’t? They are not the same thing, and you know it.”

Geralt stopped pacing. Jaskier could hear his inhalations in the silence, long and agitated breaths.

“Yennefer. I—” Geralt released a long, shuddering breath. “He will—hate me.”

Yennefer said nothing.

Jaskier stared on at the carpet. He could see Geralt in his mind, standing in the sunlight, in that white linen shirt and those dark brown trousers, his amber eyes so very incandescent and breathtaking.

Throughout the decades of knowing Geralt, Jaskier had crashed through the gamut of human emotions and back in regards to the witcher. Anger, whenever Geralt went on a self-destructive streak, believing himself only worth anything when dead. Envy, towards all the lucky people who got to experience Geralt’s amorous caresses and kisses, who knew what it felt like to be filled with Geralt’s cock. Fear, every time Geralt whipped out his swords and charged at some monstrous beast, uncaring of how injured he’d be in the battle. Kindness, every time Geralt returned from such a battle bloodied and exhausted, wordlessly requesting for Jaskier to bathe him. Shame, every time Geralt of his dreams made him come in his hands, alone in the shadows.

And then there was the grandest one of all, the rarest gem that he’d found in a tavern in Posada. Love, every time he looked at Geralt, every time he heard that deep, gravelly, sensual voice, replenishing itself as inevitably as the sea lapping at the sand until the end of time.

But hatred?

That was the one emotion he could never feel towards Geralt, no matter what Geralt did to him. He couldn’t comprehend how Geralt could even _think_ that he was capable of hating him.

“He doesn’t know that I—” A rough exhalation, then Geralt growled, “He doesn’t _know_. He’s—accepted what happened to him precisely because he doesn’t know what I—” Another rough exhalation. “He thinks someone or something else caused this.”

Heavier, slower steps echoed in the room. Cloth rustled as Geralt sat down.

“When the reality sinks in, he will hate me. Who can forgive the _violation_ I brought upon his body?”

Jaskier stared out one of the narrow, tall windows of the passageway, seeing nothing. All his dazed brain could do was repeat those two rasped lines like the tolling of a funereal bell. He didn’t know what Geralt had done. But if he was hearing things right—Geralt was somehow responsible for what happened to him.

Geralt was the reason he was pregnant with his little, sweet baby boy.

“Now who’s being the dramatic one, Geralt?” There was more rustling of cloth: Yennefer must be sitting down on one of the armchairs or settee as well. “You underestimate him. He’s had months of solitude for the reality of his situation to _sink in_ for him. You have no idea just how much he loves that baby.”

Jaskier could hear Geralt’s erratic breaths. Geralt sounded as shaken as he felt. He pressed his hands flat over his rotund belly, over his slumbering baby.

“A baby he never asked for. A baby I—”

Geralt cut himself off as violently as a sword hacking off a limb. It didn’t stop Yennefer from inflicting her own gouges into Geralt.

“Gods, you are an _idiot_. The two of you are!” The sarcasm in the words she spat next was as coagulated as crude oil. “Oh, _of course_ , it’s just a _coincidence_ that he wants the baby to have _white hair_.”

“He didn’t know what he was talking about.”

Geralt’s voice was so hoarse. Jaskier was so very glad for the wall that propped him up.

“Or maybe, he knew exactly what he was talking about, and you’re being your usual blind arsehole self—”

“ _He doesn’t feel the same way!_ ”

This time, Jaskier was startled by Geralt’s roar. He pressed a hand over his palpitating heart, his breath snagged in his throat, his eyes wide. He was startled again by the jarring noise of a considerable foot in a leather boot striking something solid and wooden, sending it flying and crashing on the floor.

“It’s—it has to be whatever that—that fucking _magical tree_ is making him feel!”

Jaskier’s lips parted, and his brows furrowed with perplexity.

A magical tree? Geralt thought that—that some _magical tree_ was _controlling his feelings?_

What?

“You’re so sure. That this ancient oak tree transformed his emotions like it transformed his body.”

Yennefer’s voice was deceptively placid once more. Geralt didn’t respond for what felt like ages to Jaskier.

“Women,” Geralt eventually growled. “He’s only slept with women. All he spoke about were women. Never men.”

Jaskier’s hand over his heart clenched into a fist, scrunching up embroidered cloth in it. No—no, that wasn’t true at all. He’d had sex with men in the past. One-off encounters in towns he knew he would never return to, with brawny, long-haired men in the dark, their grating voices tolerable enough for him to ignore the truth: that none of them were the man he truly wanted to be with, that none of them could ever compare to that man.

There had been instances when Jaskier had been tempted to drop hints about his sexual desire for women and men alike. To say, _Geralt, I like fucking men too, and you’re the star of all my sexual fantasies, bar none_. But to do that meant risking his friendship with Geralt, because he had no idea how Geralt would react, or if Geralt would become _awkward_ around him after that, keeping him at a distance.

No more travels together. No more sharing a bed. No more bathing Geralt, or massaging him with chamomile oil. No more curbed smiles at his antics or his singing. No more heavy-lidded, warm amber eyes gazing at him.

No more Geralt—and he couldn’t accept that. Not then, certainly not now that the gods returned Geralt to him.

“Have you ever told him about _your_ history with men?”

Geralt said nothing to Yennefer’s sedate question. In the stretching hush, Jaskier’s rapid heartbeat was deafening in his ears. He didn’t know how he was still standing upright on his aching feet.

He’d never seen Geralt with another man. Never heard Geralt speak about sex with other men. Then there was the fact that the witcher was verbally sparring with his ex-lover right now, a sorceress. A woman. A very, _very_ attractive woman.

But—had Geralt refrained from speaking about his sexual experiences with men for the same reasons Jaskier had?

Had Geralt feared losing him, too?

Jaskier was _so_ very glad for the wall that continued to prop him up.

Yennefer let out a sound that was somehow both a derisive scoff and a resigned sigh.

“Fine.” Cloth rustled again, as if she’d shifted on her seat. “You said you didn’t see or sense anyone else near that ancient oak tree.”

“No.”

“No magic, as far as you could tell.”

“No. My medallion didn’t react to anything. It’s not infallible, but—” Geralt huffed, then growled, “But I know now that fucking tree was magical. It—it _connected_ to me, somehow. To my mind.” Jaskier envisioned him stabbing his own chest with a thumb, scowling. “So I did this. _I_ did this to him!”

“Really. And how did you pull that off?”

Something solid and wooden skidded across the floor, as if it was kicked again. Geralt’s armchair.

“ _How did you pull that off,_ Geralt?”

“I wished for it! Is that what you wanted to hear, Yennefer?! _I wished for it!_ ”

Jaskier’s whole body moved before he was conscious of it, pushing him off the wall, taking him through the living room’s open double doors with slow albeit steady strides. He halted a few steps inside, and his wide eyes took in the scene before him: Yennefer, in a high-collared, white dress that exposed her upper chest, was sitting on a cushioned armchair with her right leg crossed over her left. There were still mild, purplish shadows under her eyes. Geralt was standing on the other side of the room from her, his armchair kicked to a corner. One of its front legs was splintered. The ostentatious, red velvet settee that spanned the distance between Geralt and Yennefer was unscathed.

Geralt was seven feet away from Jaskier. The sunlight that streamed through the double doors set Geralt’s stark eyes ablaze into vivid gold.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer drawled. “So _fortuitous_ of you to join us.”

Jaskier tore his eyes away from Geralt to glance at her. Her small smirk was all he needed to realize that she knew he’d been out there in the passageway eavesdropping on them. He swiveled his head to stare at Geralt again. Geralt’s slack, wide-eyed expression was all he needed to realize that Geralt hadn’t detected his presence despite his heightened senses—so harrowed the witcher was by the fraught conversation.

He refused to break eye contact. Refused to be the first to do so.

“Where were you that night, Geralt? Tell me.” He swallowed hard, but his voice still became throaty when he demanded, “Tell me what you wished for.”

Geralt shut his eyes. His broad shoulders slumped. He looked like a man about to be garroted.

“You don’t want to know, Jaskier,” Geralt rasped.

Jaskier strode forward and shortened the distance between them to three feet. Geralt’s eyes popped open, and they didn’t blink while Jaskier glared at him.

“Yes, I do. _Tell me_.”

He’d never seen Geralt look so scared. So vulnerable. Geralt was standing in front of him without his armor, his weapons. Even Geralt’s bulwarks within were gone. Yet, here the witcher was, unflinching. Making no attempt to flee through the double doors from his garroter.

His beautiful, brave witcher.

Geralt’s wide eyes eased into that heavy-lidded gaze that Jaskier adored so.

“You remember that night in Caed Myrkvid,” Geralt said. “The forest on our way to Belhaven.”

“Yes.”

Geralt’s chest expanded in a deep breath that was exhaled as a low sigh.

“I wasn’t in my bedroll because I couldn’t sleep.”

“Your insomnia,” Jaskier murmured, his glare waning to a sympathetic gaze.

Geralt’s lips quirked up in a tiny smile.

“Mm.”

Of all the noises that interrupted their unfolding conversation, it was the crunching of pearly teeth on something brittle and sweet.

Jaskier and Geralt turned their heads in unison to stare at Yennefer—who was chewing on a large honey biscuit, staring back at them with avid violet eyes. Only now did Jaskier notice the plate of similar honey biscuits on the side table next to Yennefer’s armchair.

“Do you mind?” Geralt ground out, his eyebrows lowered in a deadly glare.

Yennefer swallowed her mouthful of biscuit, licked her plump lips, and replied, “Oh no. I don’t mind at all. I’m not going anywhere.” She sucked her forefinger into her mouth, her eyes wide and twinkling. “I’ve been waiting for this for a _long_ time.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, then gazed at Jaskier once more with those heavy-lidded, warm eyes, those full lips quirked up in that tiny smile. Jaskier couldn’t help the mirthful tremors of his lips. Whether or not it had been intentional, Yennefer had punctured whatever remained of the overwrought tension in the room.

It was so much easier now for Geralt, it seemed, to look Jaskier in the eye as he spoke.

“I couldn’t sleep, and I thought a walk would help.”

Jaskier wasn’t surprised by that: Geralt had done that before, trudging off into the woods, grumbling about the non-existence of sleeping potions that were effective on his witcher body. Jaskier had also woken up before in the middle of the night to hear Geralt twisting around in agitation in his bedroll, growling in frustration.

More than once, Jaskier had almost given in to the temptation to turn to Geralt and offer his hand on the witcher’s cock, if that would help.

“The fire was still going. You were asleep. Roach was nearby, and I knew she’d keep an eye on you while I was gone.” Geralt’s eyes lowered to Jaskier’s mouth, glazing over in recollection. “So I walked into the woods. Into the mist. I didn’t sense anything wrong. My medallion didn’t vibrate. I didn’t know how much time passed.”

Geralt’s forehead creased in a mild frown, and he looked Jaskier in the eye again.

“Then the mist parted, as if it’d been blown away. I was standing in front of this—this ancient oak tree that was so massive and tall that—it looked like it touched the stars. Some of its roots were as thick as the trunks of common trees. I—I should have been suspicious of it. A tree that big—we should have seen it when we were traveling through the forest during the day, but we never did.”

Geralt’s forehead smoothened.

“I sat down on one of the smaller roots. It was covered in green moss, and it was—comfortable. Like the softest bed.” Geralt’s lips quirked up again, in a small smile that crinkled his eyes. “I didn’t hear anything. It was as if the whole forest was asleep and dreaming. I smelled nectar, loam. I felt a cool breeze across my face. I felt—safe.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt, hushed, mesmerized. He had never heard Geralt say so many words before, with a voice gone so mellifluous.

“I felt safe. At utter peace. All my fears, my worries were—taken away. And all that was left in my mind was—”

Geralt faltered into what seemed to be nervous silence. Jaskier had never seen Geralt in this state before: those amber, puppy-like eyes flitting to the side, that long neck jouncing from a hard swallow, and most of all, that slight quiver to the lower lip.

“Geralt?”

It took Geralt several seconds to look at the vicinity of his face.

“What was left, Geralt? Tell me,” Jaskier whispered. “Please.”

Once more, Geralt gazed at him with those heavy-lidded, warm eyes—as if he was all that Geralt could see. As if he was all that Geralt wished to see.

“You.”

Geralt’s husky answer struck him like a spear through his chest. He stood frozen to the spot, but he wasn’t cold, not at all. He felt waves of warmth radiating from his belly, his chest. He stared back with round eyes, his lips tremoring for a very different reason.

“Oh,” he breathed.

“I could see you. You were standing barefoot on the wet sand, your breeches rolled up to the knees. The waves of the sea were rolling in, over and over, in the distance. Your hair was windswept. Glowing in the sunlight.”

That small smile that crinkled Geralt’s eyes returned to his softening face.

“You weren’t alone. You were laughing,” Geralt murmured. “You were holding a baby up in the air. A big baby boy.”

Geralt’s smile expanded. He let out a gentle huff, as if he hadn’t just swept the entire world away from beneath Jaskier’s feet.

“It took me a while to understand what I was looking at. You were calling the baby your ‘little star’, and he was dressed in this—this strange, knitted thing that looked like—” Geralt shook his head, frowning even as he was smiling. “A yellow, five-point star.”

Geralt was becoming a mass of colorful blobs to Jaskier’s stinging, wet eyes. He blinked hard once, twice.

_I knitted that star-shaped envelope blanket weeks ago._

_It’s in the armoire, waiting for my little, sweet baby boy._

“Then you held the baby to your chest. You kissed him on the forehead. You turned and looked at me, and you smiled. You ran a hand over the baby’s head. It pushed back the knitted cap and—” Again, Geralt’s neck jounced with a hard swallow. “The baby’s hair was white. And I saw the blue of his eyes. Blue, like the cloudless sky that was above us.”

Jaskier couldn’t speak. He stared on at Geralt, his head beginning to ache, his nose congesting high up in his skull, his throat prickling—but he was as far from sorrow as anyone could be.

“That was when I knew, somehow. That the baby was our son. The best of you and me.”

Again, Geralt faltered into silence, a pensive one that lasted for a few lengthy seconds.

“Then you—you were saying something to me. I couldn’t hear you over the waves of the sea. You were asking me a question, and waiting for my answer. I knew I had to answer you.” Geralt frowned to himself. “I think—it’d been the oak tree, or whatever the hell it was, speaking to me. I don’t know what it asked me. But I answered anyway.” The frown evaporated from Geralt’s face. “I said yes.”

Geralt’s eyes dropped to Jaskier’s rotund belly.

“Then it was—dawn. I was on my bedroll, and you were there on yours, sleeping. Roach was standing exactly where I’d left her before walking into the forest. So I thought—I’d actually returned from my walk and slept.” Geralt’s lips pressed into a thin, colorless line. “I thought it had all been a dream. Just a dream. Nothing more.”

Geralt took a step back, as if he’d just realized how close he was to Jaskier. As if he was afraid of somehow hurting him just by being near.

It was what freed Jaskier’s voice to rasp, “It wasn’t just a dream, Geralt.”

_It’s what we could have._

_It’s what our future could be, with our baby._

_Our little, sweet baby boy, with white hair just like yours, and blue eyes just like mine._

“No. It wasn’t.” Geralt was taking another step back, his face contorting into an agonized grimace. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m so sorry. I— _violated_ you, your body, with my wish in the worst possible way, and it’s fucking unforgivable. You never asked for this. You didn’t even have a _choice_.”

Jaskier was already shaking his head, mouthing “no” again and again, but Geralt wasn’t looking at him anymore. Geralt had turned away from him. Geralt’s teeth were bared in naked anguish, his fists clenched so hard at his sides that they shook.

“Just once, all I want is for fucking destiny to _stop meddling with my life!_ ”

Geralt’s wretched bellow towards the ceiling, towards the heavens and the mute gods in them, reverberated around the living room. Yennefer, who’d been sitting in rapt silence in her armchair, continued to do so, her expression cryptic, her posture relaxed as she stared at Geralt. Jaskier was transfixed to the spot again, his eyes wide and wet. He also stared at Geralt, helpless, feeling the witcher’s pain as if it was his own.

“Just once, just fucking _once_ —” Geralt bowed his head, and his rage bled out of his whole body as he turned to face Jaskier again. “All I want is for someone to love me because they choose to, not because they were _forced to_.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt’s face, at the naked anguish that still permeated it—but what he saw was Geralt throughout the twenty years they’d known each other. Geralt, who’d always been a man of action rather than a man of words.

Geralt, glowering and pointing at the space between his own bedroll and the campfire for Jaskier’s bedroll, not because Jaskier was a weak human who needed constant protection—but because Geralt wanted to keep him safe, to place himself between Jaskier and all danger.

Geralt, passive in a brimming bathtub, while Jaskier sat behind him on a stool and washed his long, white hair—letting his lips curl up in a contented smile, letting Jaskier’s euphonious voice flow over him like an invigorating wave of the sea.

Geralt, sleeping on one side of the bed in an inn, giving Jaskier space to sleep on the other side—and rolling over to gaze at Jaskier when he was the one who fell asleep first, to reach out and press a callused, large hand to Jaskier’s rising and falling chest.

Geralt, who trusted Jaskier so much that he could slumber so soundly in a bed with him, and not so much as twitch when he pressed a hand to that broad, vulnerable back. Geralt, who’d ridden all the way to Oxenfurt from Gulet, just to search for him, to see him again. Geralt, who’d seen him through his bedroom window, and fumed at Yennefer for hiding him, for separating them even longer than they never had to be.

Geralt, who trusted him so much—and loved him so much in return all along.

“You think some magical oak tree granting your wish is the only reason I love you?” Jaskier rasped. “You think I’ve only loved you for _mere months?_ ”

His wide eyes refused to clear. It was his turn for his hands to become shaking fists at his sides, for his teeth to be bared in a furious rictus at his monster-slaying champion, his muse, his best friend—and yes, more than ever, the _truest love of his life_.

“ _You_ —you daft, presumptuous, human-shaped toothache that—that _immatures_ with age and sings like a—like a creaking _hinge!_ ”

He could tell, without looking at her, that Yennefer had raised both eyebrows at him. He opened his mouth again, and the torrent of words that Geralt had expected in that inn room in Gulet, that he should have liberated there and then, blasted out of it at Geralt’s stunned face.

“You never asked me what _I_ want! I walked by your side for _twenty years_ , Geralt. I spun songs about you and traveled the entire Continent singing them to everyone who’d listen, so they would _see_ you for who you really are!”

He gestured at his own body with both hands.

“I have scars all over my body, my arms, and my legs, from fighting at your side! I would have _died_ multiple times, if it wasn’t for you saving me!” He flung his arms up and out to his sides. “Do you think I did all that, braved all that, because it was a _chore?_ That it was all just a _joke_ to me? Do you think it was because I was _forced_ to do any of it?”

He didn’t give a damn that his eyes were now spilling rivulets down his flushed cheeks. His eyes were clear, and it allowed him to see Geralt. To see Geralt’s wide eyes—and that gleam in their amber splendor, that brilliant, growing gleam that he hadn’t recognized last night, that was again making Geralt’s eyelids flicker over glistening eyes, making his throat bob with a visible swallow: hope.

“I didn’t care how far I had to walk the path, how much pain I had to endure—as long as I was with you!” Jaskier sucked in a ragged breath. “As if I could ever hate you! You bull-headed, vexing lout!”

And like Geralt’s rage had bled out of him, Jaskier’s indignation also bled out of him in seconds, leaving him a gasping, tear-streaked mess that was somehow still standing tall, his shoulders squared, his head held high.

“I have _loved_ you since the moment I saw you sitting there in that dark corner of that tavern in Posada, brooding like the big, old, cantankerous lout that you are.” Jaskier sucked in another ragged breath, his shoulders sagging. “I love you, Geralt. I will always love you.”

In all his conjectures of his confession of love for Geralt, it had always concluded with Geralt recoiling from him with a grimace. Or stomping off in disgust. Or smacking him across the face for even daring to think that Geralt needed love from anyone, much less from _him_.

In all his conjectures and imaginings, not once had he dared to envisage what his damp, sore eyes saw now: Geralt, standing in front of him with loose hands and shoulders, his amber eyes glistening even more in the sunshine as an extraordinary smile gradually brightened his whole face, his whole being. It was a smile that Jaskier had never before seen on Geralt’s gorgeous face. It was a smile that no song Jaskier or any other bard in existence could compose to do justice to its pure grace.

It was the smile of a man who knew, at last, that he was loved as he was.

“You called me a lout twice.”

Geralt’s hoarse reply wasn’t what the romantic ballads of the day would have extolled. It wasn’t what most people would have anticipated to an ardent explosion of emotions twenty years in the making—but Jaskier wasn’t most people, and neither was Geralt. For Jaskier, that faintest of jibes at his vocabulary was more overwhelming than three parroted words could ever be.

Jaskier sniffled. Curbed the exultant smile that threatened to brighten his whole face, his whole being. Jabbed a finger at Geralt’s chest, and exclaimed, “And _you_ are a bloody _pillock_ if you think _our baby_ is some—some _violation_ of my body! As if I don’t love him with everything I have! He’s the second best thing that’s ever happened to me! _Ever!_ ”

Geralt’s smile abided, and so did the that warmth in his glistening, heavy-lidded eyes. That warmth that had always far transcended friendship.

“What’s the first?” Geralt murmured. “Are you going to sing about it?”

Jaskier stood with arms akimbo, and huffed, “Oh, _oh_ , so you want me to write a song about our very first meeting, too?”

Geralt took a step towards him.

“As if you haven’t already. You probably have ten different versions of it.”

“Of course not!” Jaskier sniffed and turned up his nose. “I have at least fifteen versions of it. What kind of lazy bard do you take me for, Geralt?”

Geralt took another step towards him, then another—and then, those brawny arms were enfolding him again, pulling him so tight to that muscular, solid, hot body. His trembling arms slid around Geralt’s torso and squeezed as hard as they could. His hands scrunched the white linen of Geralt’s shirt.

His round belly was snug between their bodies. In it, their baby was miraculously still sound asleep, safe and at utter peace. He saw in his mind a tiny smile curving up their baby boy’s lips.

Their little, sweet baby boy.

 _Theirs_.

He buried his damp face in Geralt’s chest and let out a soundless sob, and Geralt didn’t tease him for it. He felt Geralt’s face burrowing into his thick hair. He felt warm wetness on his scalp.

All too soon, Geralt stepped back and gently maneuvered him back so they could look each other in the eye again. Geralt cupped the sides of his head with those callused, large hands. Brushed away his remaining tears from under his eyes with gentle thumbs.

“You never _asked_ ,” Jaskier whispered.

“You never asked me, either,” Geralt murmured, his smile tinged with bittersweetness.

Jaskier shut his eyes. He reached up to grasp Geralt’s hands with his own, and he turned his face, nuzzling a warm palm with his nose and mouth. Geralt was right: he was equally at fault for not asking Geralt what he truly wanted in life, for assuming when he should have assessed things instead, for not trusting Geralt when Geralt had always trusted him.

There was so much to atone for, still.

But they had time now.

They had each other.

“By the gods, you two fucking idiots have _finally_ gotten over your man-pain and wangst.”

Jaskier turned his head to glance at Yennefer. Geralt’s hands slipped from his head to rest on his shoulders, and Geralt also turned his head to glance at the sorceress.

“Now I don’t have to deal with you two moping around like the sad, lovesick puppies you are.” Yennefer’s violet eyes glinted with what would have been stern affection in anyone else. “Oh, don’t give me that pitying look, bard. I got what I wanted, too. You don’t owe me anything anymore.”

Jaskier blinked in puzzlement as Yennefer stood up with her usual elegance. She strode to them, then gave Jaskier a pointed look.

“You’re the reason Geralt even went to that damn betrothal feast in Cintra.” Her eyes softened in that way so familiar to Jaskier now, that only a privileged handful of people would ever see. “I’m going to check on Ciri.” Her gaze sharpened as she narrowed her eyes at them. “I presume the two of you can take it from here without further requiring my superior guidance and wisdom.”

Jaskier smiled softly at her as she sauntered away from them to the living room’s open double doors. Right, he had owed her one for requesting her help with his own Child Surprise four months ago—and in doing so, had kickstarted a chain reaction of events that led to Geralt escorting Ciri straight into her hands.

Geralt’s Child Surprise, who was now as much Yennefer’s: a woman did not need to bear a child to be a mother in the ways that mattered.

Jaskier felt the back of Geralt’s fingers caressing his smooth cheek. He turned his head to gaze into Geralt’s crinkled eyes, and his smile brightened into that gratified, luminous one in which he poured all his emotions for his witcher, no longer needing to conceal them. His brave, beautiful, devoted witcher. _His_.

“Ugh.”

Jaskier swiveled around and saw that Yennefer was standing in the doorway, staring at them with an outward expression of contempt.

“I detest the both of you with the flaming power of a thousand Fulmen Sphaericuses.”

Her narrowed eyes twinkled. Jaskier sputtered, then jabbed a forefinger in the air at her.

“ _I_ detest _you_ even more!”

“Impossible. I am the peerless embodiment of boundless discontentment and fury in this world.”

Jaskier opened his mouth, his finger high and ready for more emphatic jabbing. Then he shut his mouth and pursed his lips. He slowly lowered his finger, narrowing his eyes in cogitation. He opened his mouth again. Then closed it.

He made a face, then waved his hands around and said, “Yeah, that sounds about right, actually.”

Behind him, Geralt released a loud snort. With a straight face, he pointed at Geralt with a thumb over his shoulder and said to Yennefer, “On second thought, I think that’s him instead.”

Geralt ambushed him from behind with those brawny arms, wrapping them around his biceps and chest, trapping his arms at his sides. He burst into amused laughter. Let out a high-pitched squeak he would never admit to when Geralt dipped that head of silken, white hair and nipped him on the side of his neck.

Yennefer rolled her eyes and strode away, but Jaskier saw the small smile that curled up her lips.

He let Geralt turn him around so they faced each other again. He sighed in Geralt’s firm embrace, resting his head and hands on Geralt’s chest, nuzzling the dark grey curls that dusted it.

The sunlight was cocooning them once more. With his eyes shut, with Geralt’s hands on his nape and his lower back, it was easy for Jaskier to imagine wet sand underneath his feet, to smell the fresh salt of the sea. It was so easy to imagine the knitted wool of a yellow envelope blanket against his fingers and palms. The sublime weight of his baby son wriggling in his grasp as he lifted him into the air.

Yes, there he was, doing the impossible: holding a laughing star in his hands.

There he was, turning around, looking at Geralt, smiling at the truest love of his life—and asking his witcher one question.

_Do you want this?_

There Geralt was, looking back at him with those heavy-lidded, warm eyes brimming with unquenchable hope.

_Yes._

And there they were, standing on the coast. Watching the frothing, rolling waves as one while their little, sweet baby slumbered in the cradle of their bodies, his ear on Geralt’s chest, listening to Geralt’s heartbeat pulsating on and on in time with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, how could any of you have doubted for a moment that the baby is Geralt's?! *grin*
> 
> In the next update: what, you thought _that_ was all the talking these two idiots madly in love will do? NAY, I SAY. More words will be exchanged! ~~Jaskier sings! And if the first update hadn't already earned the story its explicit rating-- _well_.~~
> 
> P.S. If you know where I can find Geraskier fan art, or recommend any Geraskier fan artists, please feel free to let me know!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone freaks out, 10 updates is the final count! I decided to split two long updates into four so I can update the story faster. 💪 And to make up for the increased update count, I've also decided to write not one but multiple explicit sex scenes for the story. You guys, uh, aren't too upset about that, are ya?
> 
> And thank you, _thankyouthankyouthankyou_ for all the lovely comments, kudos, and bookmarks. 🍺 Y'all are such amazing folks. I'm so happy that you're enjoying the story! Wonderful art recommendations too!
> 
> Let's kick off this next wave of Geraskier feels with happy!Jaskier:  
> 

Roach was as feisty, grumpy, and opinionated as Jaskier remembered her—and he’d missed her as much as he had her master of similar temperament.

“Hello, you,” Jaskier said, reaching his right hand out to pet the chestnut mare’s face above her nostrils. “Did you miss me, you curmudgeonly beauty?”

They were in the stables, standing in the aisle in front of the row of box stalls after Geralt had guided Roach out of her stall for Jaskier to greet her. She was bridled, but unsaddled. There was no bit between her teeth.

She let out a low nicker. Geralt, standing next to him and gripping her reins, bowed his head and smiled to himself.

“Well, yes, I was talking to your master,” Jaskier added, straight-faced, tracing the narrow, white markings on Roach’s face with his fingertips. “But the question applies just as much to you.”

Geralt’s crinkled-eyed smile expanded. It cultivated a similar smile on Jaskier’s face. Roach let out another low nicker, her ears pricked in Jaskier’s direction. She lowered her head and nuzzled the swell of his belly. Seconds later, she raised her head and stared at him.

“Oh, I haven’t changed _that_ much, have I?”

Roach stared at him for a few more seconds, then swerved her head to stare at Geralt. Jaskier gave her an exaggerated rolling of eyes.

“Oh, _fine_ , I’ve put on _some_ weight. I can’t help it. I’ve got a big baby growing in me!” He squinted at Geralt, and said, “And if Yennefer told you that I ate an entire honey cake in one go, _it’s a lie_.”

Geralt, who had absorbed at least some modicum of wisdom in his hundred-plus years of life about not commenting on a beloved’s conspicuous weight gain, replied with a non-committal, “Hmmn.”

Jaskier turned his face towards Roach again to hide his reappearing smile.

“Have you said hello to Garnet and Snowball, hm?”

Roach puffed a breath through her nostrils in what sounded very much like a haughty snort. Jaskier’s lower jaw dropped in mock outrage, and exclaimed, “Roach! They’re lovely horsies. Who knows, they could become your best friends in the whole, wide world!”

If horses were capable of a reproachful look, Roach would have gladly smacked his face head-on with one. Jaskier made a show of averting his head with his nose up from her.

“Hmph! Fine, they can become _Geralt’s_ best friends in the whole, wide world, not yours.”

Oh, he had so missed that fond headshake, and that small smile that said, _what by Melitele’s left tit is wrong with your head_.

It was absolute ecstasy to be able to reach across the inches of space between them to grasp Geralt’s hand. To feel Geralt’s larger hand enveloping and squeezing his, feel their fingers entwine in a weave that only the two of them could break.

After Jaskier’s heartfelt declaration of his feelings for Geralt a mere hour ago, the lines between their spaces, their lives were gone.

Jaskier led Geralt to the two occupied stalls farther down, stopping first at Garnet’s. Garnet was a tall draught horse like Snowball, but slightly smaller, with a black coat and sabino markings. Her mane was much shorter than Snowball’s, cropped inches to her crest. Her forelocks were left long between her amiable, brown eyes. Those eyes were shut in tranquil slumber while she stood at the stall’s door, her head hanging over the door’s shut lower half.

Jaskier petted her cheek. He turned to Geralt and said, “This is Garnet. She’s just the sweetest giant, like her sister next door.”

A tiny, charmed smile graced Geralt’s face as he ran a careful hand along the side of her neck. That smile did funny things to the happy, inflamed thing in the left side of Jaskier’s chest. Geralt had such a profound bond with Roach, so it was no surprise that the witcher would also display affection to other horses. Jaskier had fallen in love with the two draught horses within minutes of meeting them—and he was more often than not wary about being in close proximity with an animal several times bigger than him, with menacing hooves that could rake open his torso or shatter his spine with a single kick.

Until he was teleported to the manor, Roach had been the sole horse he’d been willing to approach and linger around. It hadn’t been for lack of opportunity to procure a horse for himself that he walked the roads at Roach’s side or behind her and at a safe distance from her back legs.

Anyway, Geralt had never permitted him to ride Roach, unless he was incapacitated from severe injury. Twenty years on, and he still recalled Geralt’s brusque order: “ _Don’t touch Roach!_ ”

To his satisfaction, that order was no longer warranted.

Snowball was also hanging her head over her stall’s shut lower door. She was awake, observing him and Geralt with curious brown eyes. She nickered at him. Her ears twitched. He smiled at her, then led Geralt to her.

“Hello, you lovely thing.”

As usual, Snowball lowered her head to snuffle at his rotund belly. He petted her between her ears, down her black forelocks, until she raised her head. He stroked the underside of her jaw, just the way she liked it. She let out a sigh of delight.

“Snowball, this is Geralt,” he said, gesturing at the witcher who still had that tiny, charmed smile. “I’ve talked about him before. Remember?”

He’d expected the affable giant to snuffle Geralt’s hand or face, like she had when they’d met for the first time here in the stables. But when Geralt stretched out his left hand to pet her, she swerved her head away in blatant evasion, letting out an offended snort.

Jaskier’s jaw sagged. He glanced at Geralt, and was torn between giggling and feeling sympathy at Geralt’s puppy-eyed, discouraged expression. Geralt’s lips were pursed. His hand hovered awkwardly in the air.

“Snowball!” Jaskier stroked the draught horse’s muzzle, and waited for her to turn her head back and look at him. “Don’t be mean to Geralt.”

For the second time, Snowball recoiled from Geralt’s hand when Geralt attempted to pet her, her ears pinned back. Jaskier covered his tremoring mouth with his hand. Geralt pursed his lips even more, slowly withdrawing his hand with a long, low grunt.

“I—have to groom Roach.”

Jaskier gave Geralt’s other hand a consoling squeeze. Geralt squeezed his hand in return, then released it and sauntered back to Roach who still stood in the aisle. If horses could glare like humans, Roach would be skewering Snowball with a baleful one, the way she was staring at Snowball.

Jaskier knew precisely why Snowball had reacted the way she had towards Geralt.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered, when she nuzzled his face like she had after he’d bawled his eyes out in her stall. “Sshh, I’m fine. Really. I’m not crying over him anymore. See?”

He stroked her cheeks with both hands. She exhaled with a deep, fluttering breath through her nostrils, as if she was relieved to hear that. He chuckled at the ticklish sensation of her breath against his neck.

He turned his head to look at Geralt—and saw that Geralt seemed to be standing frozen next to Roach, his right hand holding a body brush to Roach’s shoulder. He blinked at the sight, then frowned, biting on his lower lip. Had Geralt heard what he’d whispered to Snowball?

After another blink, Geralt was moving again, sweeping the body brush with short movements across Roach’s side, scraping the body brush against a curry comb in his left hand to clean it every few strokes. Geralt didn’t look at him, or say anything.

He gave Snowball one last pet on her face, then ambled back to Geralt and Roach, standing in front of the chestnut mare. He smiled at her, petting her muzzle, feeling a spark of joy when she didn’t bite his fingers or snort in irritation at him.

“Geralt and I had a really good chat today,” he said, gazing into her long-lashed eyes. “You should have been there. Would have probably had a thing or two to say about my _passionate_ proclamation of love for your master.” He made a sweeping gesture with both hands, spreading them out to the sides. “A review! Three neighs or less!”

Oh, there it was, that small, amused smile that lit Geralt up from the inside like the sun on a mild spring day. Geralt continued to sweep the body brush along Roach’s copper-red body. Roach didn’t respond other than to lower her head to nuzzle Jaskier’s belly with curiosity.

Jaskier’s mirth subsided as he stared down at her head, as he stroked her ear. He was still very raw from that chat which had been far more a tempestuous eruption that had knocked him out for six.

After Yennefer had left the living room, after that blissful hug, Geralt had ushered him to the red velvet settee and sat him down on it. He hadn’t been conscious of how much his feet were aching until he was no longer standing on them. He’d groaned—and in an instant, Geralt had sat down beside him and clasped him in those incredible arms, rubbing circles on his lower back, encouraging him to lean on that muscle-bound, sturdy body he’d fantasized about for so very long. He’d tucked his head under Geralt’s chin, shut his drying, sore eyes.

He had then plummeted into a nap within seconds.

It’d been even more embarrassing to wake up a half hour later to find that he’d drooled on Geralt’s shirt. And snored. Like a warg with acute indigestion. Then again, Geralt’s eyes had been twinkling when he made those comments, and he’d been carding those thick yet tender fingers through his hair, so he reckoned he was all right.

Geralt hadn’t moved an inch from the settee the whole time he was napping. Geralt had held him close, and made sure he was comfortable and didn’t end up with a crick in his neck.

Geralt loved him.

Geralt _loved_ him.

He raised his head and gazed at Geralt while the witcher brushed Roach’s hip, loin, and croup. There was so much to process from what he’d eavesdropped on Geralt’s heated conversation with Yennefer. His brain was scarcely beginning to scratch the surface of it, and it would likely take him days if not weeks or even _months_ to parse it all.

But one line Geralt had rasped stood out from the rest like a dagger stabbed into a man’s maw and out the back of his head.

_Who can forgive the **violation** I brought upon his body?_

Geralt had sounded so agonized. He’d looked even worse when he’d apologized to Jaskier for that supposed violation, as if he’d realized he truly was the monster he and so many other people believed he was.

But Geralt wasn’t a monster. No. Never. Geralt was more than human, but never a monster.

And the truth, the simple truth that Jaskier accepted now, was that Geralt would never have simply killed Jaskier’s baby. Would never have made such a rash and ruthless decision despite his— _their_ baby’s magical origin, even if Geralt hadn’t been the direct cause of the pregnancy. It would have harmed him beyond measure, mentally and physically. Harmed them both in irredeemable ways.

Geralt wasn’t a monster. Geralt had spent months on the run from the Nilfgaardian army to save a young princess from certain death. Geralt had been willing to lay down his life for a child he’d barely known. Geralt had looked like an overjoyed, soaring bird when he’d pressed his hand to Jaskier’s belly last night, and felt their baby wriggle.

Geralt was never, ever monster.

But by mistrusting Geralt, by assuming the worst, he might as well have told Geralt that he believed his darling witcher truly was one, too.

“Jaskier?”

He was still staring at Geralt, but the wetness in his wide eyes transmuted the motionless man into smudges of color. His eyelids fluttered over his eyes that didn’t spill his remorse. Not yet.

“I should have trusted you,” he rasped. “To—to tell you what happened to me.” He swallowed past a choking lump in his throat. “But killing monsters is what you do, isn’t it?”

Geralt didn’t answer the rhetorical question. Geralt stayed motionless and silent, gazing back at him, listening to him. He lowered his damp eyes and touched Roach’s muzzle with his right hand. She stayed as motionless and silent as her master, as if she was aware of the sudden solemnity blanketing them.

“How was I supposed to know you’d _wished_ for this, Geralt? When Yennefer used her magic to examine me, and told me a _baby_ had been growing inside me for three months without me realizing it—” He bit his lip. “When even she didn’t know how it could have happened, I had no idea what to think. What to do.” His throat worked in another painful swallow. Then he whispered, “I wanted to tell you. I really did.”

“But killing monsters is what I do.”

Geralt’s voice was so deep and gravelly. So gentle.

Jaskier stared down at Roach’s face, and nodded once. He blinked hard.

“Obviously a human man like me was never meant to bear a child. Magic had to be involved.” He ignored the trembling of his hand that stroked Roach’s muzzle. “It made a lot more sense, then, to assume the worst. Yennefer said that it took truly powerful magic to—to change me this way. And that magic always has a price.”

He sucked in a jittery breath. He could sense Geralt’s unblinking stare on his face, like a shaft of moonlight on a starless night. What he was about to say were nightmarish things that he’d submerged in the darkest recesses of his mind for months. His worst fears about his baby, now spouting up his pinhole-sized throat and out his dry mouth.

“For the longest time, I thought—I’d thought some utterly insane mage out there had done this to me. Turned me into an _experiment_. Into a—” His face contorted into a grimace of banked horror. “A baby-making _thing_ to create some sort of— _new creature_. That they couldn’t with a woman.”

Geralt said nothing. Neither did he move.

“Then Yennefer said that no mage was capable of this, that she would have found them long ago if there was one. So it was probably some—some extremely powerful _entity_ that gave this baby to me. Something _not_ human. So how could—” Jaskier lifted his head, and looked Geralt in the eye. “How could a baby like that possibly be human?”

Geralt didn’t answer him. Geralt took a step nearer to him, dropping the two combs to the stone floor without glancing down. The clatter they made echoed through the stables.

“So it—it also made so much sense then, that if you found out, you would probably—kill my baby.” He bit his lower lip hard. Felt a shudder of self-reproach down his spine, even as a surge of happiness accompanied it. “Our baby.” He sucked in another jittery breath, then rasped, “Even if I said no.”

He prepared himself for Geralt to lash out at him. Or worse, to no longer stare at him with those heavy-lidded, warm eyes but with cold, disappointed ones.

Geralt took another step nearer to him.

Geralt reached for his left forearm and grasped it. He let Geralt raise his arm. He lowered his eyes again when Geralt’s hand enveloped his, when Geralt’s thumb caressed his knuckles.

“You were right to be scared.”

Jaskier’s head snapped up at the murmured response. Geralt’s benevolent expression hadn’t changed. Geralt’s thumb was still caressing his knuckles. He could open his mouth and yell a demand for Geralt to explain himself right now, flail his arms, set his arms akimbo—and overreact.

Or he could stay composed, and give Geralt the option to speak, to offer his side of the story.

Assumptions were why he and Geralt had been needlessly separated for months. Assumptions were why neither he or Geralt had dared to cross the boundary of friendship into the realm of lovers for twenty years. Assumptions were also why so many people hated Geralt just for being what he was, unwilling to see the multi-faceted person behind those large, amber eyes.

Jaskier curled his fingers around Geralt’s. He stood calm and collected, and gazed into those eyes, and waited.

Geralt’s lips quirked up in an affectionate, proud smile. He raised Jaskier’s hand to his bowed head and nuzzled the back of it with his nose and lips, inhaling his scent with a deep breath. Inhaling him into those great lungs, into the blood flowing through Geralt’s veins, through Geralt’s noble heart. It was one of the most intimate gestures anyone had ever bestowed on him, and it took his breath away.

Geralt lowered his hand to chest level, then grasped it with both hands, staring down at it.

“Decades ago, long before you were born, I was in a village that no longer exists,” Geralt said. “The path of a witcher was still new to me then. I was still trying to figure out how to obtain contracts, to gain the trust of people.” Geralt’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Or at least, get paid without being pelted with rotten vegetables and driven out with pitchforks.”

“I can speak from personal experience that being pelted with moldy bread is not much better,” Jaskier said, straight-faced until Geralt glanced at him and let out a commiserating snort.

“I remember,” Geralt murmured, and Jaskier’s lips quirked up in an equally affectionate smile for his witcher.

“Still unwise to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.” Jaskier made a face. “Although I’m—not wearing pants and, uhm, I don’t have any bread under my tunic.” He made another face. “I’m trying very hard not to make a joke about having a bun in my oven instead.”

There was that fond headshake again. Geralt returned to staring down at his hand gripped in those callused, large ones.

“I met the wealthy farmer in a tavern much like the one in Posada. It was the one tavern in the village, so it was only a matter of time until someone approached me to slay some monster or another. He was a slender man. Pale, dark-haired.” Geralt now had a somber expression. “He gave me an enormous pouch of gold before he even sat down. He said that he and his wife were expecting their first child—and that he was very worried about her.”

Geralt tightened his hands around Jaskier’s. Jaskier gave them a squeeze, and he gazed at Geralt with a slight frown, with concern.

“He said that the pregnancy had—changed her. That it was—evil. The work of the devil.” Geralt raised his head and gazed into his eyes. “He said that she wasn’t the person he knew anymore. She would flinch from his touch and hiss at him. Flinch from the light. Devour food that could feed ten men every day.” He shook his head. “At first I thought he was just exaggerating. That perhaps he was ignorant about childbearing.”

Jaskier swallowed hard, then said, “But he wasn’t.”

“No. Unfortunately, he was right.” Geralt pursed his lips into a colorless line. “I smelled the sick stench coming off her before I saw her at the farmhouse. She was so swollen that she could have been carrying four babies or more inside her. There was a—malevolence to her, in her eyes. But—she couldn’t tell that anything was wrong. She kept saying to me that she’d waited for so long for this baby. That she loved it with all her heart, and would do anything for it.”

Jaskier lowered his eyes, pressing his lips together when his lower lip quivered. He understood how that farmer’s wife had felt. He pressed his free hand to his belly, over his sleeping baby. He understood.

“In a fit of rage and terror, the farmer tore off her dress to expose her belly to me.” Jaskier gazed at Geralt again, and Geralt said, “And in that moment, everyone in the room could see the—the parasitic monster that was growing in her. The skin over her belly had become translucent. It—” Geralt’s face darkened with repugnance. “It _looked_ human. But it had multiple eyes, and fangs. Everywhere. Its skin was blood red. And it was looking back at us with all those eyes.”

A shiver of horror quaked through Jaskier’s body. Geralt grasped his upper arms, and the gentle squeeze Geralt gave them grounded him once more.

“I knew there was nothing I could do for her, other than to try cutting it out of her. I’d hoped that it would leave her quickly. That she would survive.” Geralt stroked his upper arms, his eyes downcast. “The farmer and his helpers held her down. She fought me and screamed. And then it ripped her apart from the inside. Ripped off the farmer’s head. It also tried to kill everyone else, but I hacked it to death with my sword.”

Jaskier grasped Geralt’s elbows. He could feel the slightest shivers running through Geralt’s arms. He did not want imagine the panic and incredible fear everyone in that room must have experienced while that frightening monster had rampaged in it.

“The remaining helpers and I had to burn the corpses inside the farmhouse. We burned the whole place down, to be safe. They told me that the farmer’s wife had fallen ill months ago, after she went into the woods alone, and that her belly had started to swell not long after. The farmer hadn’t known about that.”

Jaskier gave Geralt’s elbows a squeeze, then asked, “That monster—went inside her? In the woods?”

“Like a disease, perhaps?” Geralt nodded. “I thought the same then. It was why I warned the helpers to immediately seek help if they also fell ill. If their bellies swelled.”

Jaskier stared at his witcher’s handsome face, at its dismal expression.

“Geralt. Why doesn’t the village exist anymore?”

Geralt stared back for several taut seconds.

“I never went back there after what happened. But—about six years later, I heard word that the entire village had burned down to the ground. That the villagers themselves had started the fire. And killed themselves.”

Jaskier rubbed at Geralt’s brawny upper arms.

“Were there—others like it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it since. But—”

Geralt trailed off into a leaden silence, and Jaskier finally understood why Geralt had told him this horrific story.

“We were in the forest,” Jaskier said, his voice tremulous. “And I’d been alone, when that pain in my belly struck—and changed me.”

Geralt grasped his shoulders, then cupped his left cheek with one hand, caressing it with a thumb.

“You were right to be scared, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured. “If not for my wish, and for Yennefer being able to see our baby with her magic—” Geralt let out a heavy sigh that made his shoulders slump. “Yes, I would have tried to remove whatever was growing in you, once I was absolutely sure it was a monster like the one that killed that farmer’s wife.”

Jaskier drew in a wavering breath. He raised his hands and held Geralt’s wrist with his right, pressed his left over Geralt’s on his cheek.

“I would never want you to suffer what happened to her. Ever.” Geralt’s expression firmed into one of resolve—and love. So much love. “If things had turned out the same way for us, I would have done everything in my power to save you, like I did for her.”

Jaskier believed him.

“I know, Geralt,” he whispered.

At that moment, he saw in his mind’s eye Geralt standing alone on the long stone steps that led to the regal entrance of the Academy in Oxenfurt. He saw Geralt’s gloved hands clenching into fists, Geralt gritting his teeth in frustration, in _despair_ , at not finding him there. Wondering where he really was. Whether he was safe. Whether he was alive.

Then he saw Geralt and Ciri on Roach, riding as far from Cintra, from Nilfgaard as they could. Geralt with those dark bags under his eyes, sitting behind a campfire while Ciri slept in a bedroll nearby, keeping vigil. Wondering if the Nilfgaardian army had captured him, knowing he was the White Wolf’s bard companion. Wondering if he was already dead at their hands, or worse.

Ciri had told him in the dining room yesterday what his heart had been too blind, too scared, to acknowledge all these decades.

_Geralt speaks all the time about you._

_He was so determined to find you._

His brave, beautiful, devoted witcher, who never said goodbye to him, who never stopped searching for him—who never stopped loving him.

Geralt was there.

Geralt was always there for him, if only he’d looked, and _seen_ that.

Geralt’s arms opened for him without hesitation when he lunged at Geralt and embedded his face into Geralt’s chest, letting the white linen shirt soak up his soundless tears of remorse. He felt one of those arms wrap around his shoulders, and the other across his lower back, surrounding him with Geralt’s soothing body heat and scent.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I should have—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Geralt murmured, firmly but also fondly.

“I was afraid,” Jaskier whispered, sliding one hand down between their bodies to press it to his belly again. “I love him so much. I would die for him.”

Geralt’s arms tightened around him. Against his forehead, he felt Geralt’s neck jounce in a hard swallow. Geralt didn’t say anything, but Jaskier didn’t need him to: Geralt’s arm lowering from his shoulders, Geralt’s hand pressing to his belly next to his was more than enough.

He was in a trance-like state while Geralt picked up the combs from the floor and guided Roach back into her stall, murmuring an apology to her and promising to return later to finish grooming her. It was late afternoon, but he was already fatigued, craving a nap on his bed. He petted Roach on her face in wordless apology when she hung her head over the shut lower door. Like her master, she communicated better with action than sounds, and she nuzzled his hand as if to say she understood.

Garnet was still asleep. Snowball was still awake, watching him and Geralt approach her stall. She welcomed his hand on her face and muzzle. She nuzzled his cheeks, and let out a short puff of breath.

“Sshh, I’m fine,” Jaskier murmured. “I really am.” Jaskier turned his head to gaze at Geralt with crinkled eyes. “I love him so very much, Snowball.”

Geralt grasped his left hand, and intertwined their fingers. Snowball turned her head on her long neck, and stared at Geralt when he stepped closer to her. Geralt stared back at her with warm eyes, patiently awaiting her final verdict of him.

She let out a noise that was a combination of a low nicker and a chiding snort. She extended her head and nipped Geralt on the shoulder with her teeth, although it was mild enough that Geralt didn’t react at all to it. She withdrew her head to stare at the silent witcher again.

Jaskier nibbled on his lower lip in a failed attempt to not smile. Geralt, on the other hand, made no attempt to conceal his crinkled-eyed, tiny smile at the gentle giant of a horse. That smile broadened when Snowball accepted his touch on her cheek.

“I know,” Geralt said to her. “I’ll do my best to never make him cry again.”

Snowball replied with a nicker that seemed to say, _we’ll see about that, pal_.

Geralt’s smile softened. He stroked the underside of her jaw, like Jaskier had, and she released a satisfied albeit begrudging sigh. That was fine. She would see Geralt for the good man he always was, soon enough.

Geralt led Jaskier out of the stables by the hand. In the doorway of the main entrance, Geralt halted in his tracks and turned to face him. He also halted and faced Geralt, gazing up at his witcher with curious eyes.

“Yes,” Geralt said.

Jaskier’s forehead creased in a puzzled frown, even as his lips curled up in a smile.

“What?”

Geralt’s gaze flitted away to the side in—nervousness? What was Geralt nervous about?

Jaskier tugged on their linked hands. He reached for Geralt’s other hand and linked them as well, staring up at Geralt until the witcher looked at him again.

Geralt cleared his throat.

“Yes,” Geralt growled, his eyes heavy-lidded and lowered. “I did miss you.”

Jaskier blinked. In his mind, he saw Ciri again, sitting at Geralt’s left in that embroidered, dark green dress in the dining room.

_He was so determined to find you._

Then she’d said something that Geralt had interrupted with two words so palpable in their plea to her. A truncated sentence that Jaskier had wished that Geralt would tell him in his own words, that he now knew in full.

_He said he really missed you._

He was powerless to stop the beatific smile that spread across his face, that crinkled his eyes and lit him up from head to toes brighter than the late afternoon sun above them in its pellucid sky. He would have bounced on his feet if not for his rotund belly and its precious cargo.

He pressed the tip of a forefinger to that endearing dimple in Geralt’s chin.

“My curmudgeonly beauty,” he said, his smile so wide that his teeth hurt in the best way.

Geralt’s grey eyebrows descended in a crotchety scowl. Geralt aimed a rumbling growl at him through pursed lips—but those enchanting amber eyes were so very crinkled, and twinkled so radiantly.

Jaskier traced those dark pink, pursed lips, from one quirked end to the other.

“You can’t fool me anymore,” he murmured. “You gentle, sweet giant.”

Geralt let out another rumbling growl.

But he also pulled Jaskier to that muscular, solid, hot body, and enfolded him in those brawny, scarred arms, and there was nowhere else, with no one else that he wished to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's expression as he gazes at Jaskier here slays me every time:  
> 
> 
> And about Jaskier's fears for his baby, and that story Geralt tells Jaskier in this update--you see, that had been my initial idea for an mpreg!Jaskier story. I've fleshed it and plotted it out since, and yeah, it's as dark, chock-full of body horror and Jaskier whump, heart-wrenching as you think it is, although believe it or not, it has a happy ending! ~~It's sitting in my computer waiting for me to write it out. Still on the fence whether I should. 🤔 Hm, perhaps after I finish _The Best of You and Me_.~~ It's _The Breaking of the Shell_ , and you can read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490438).
> 
> Also, Garnet and Snowball are [Clydesdale horses](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clydesdale_horse). I can't outright call them that in the story for obvious reasons. I love Clydesdale horsies so much.
> 
> In the next update: Jaskier sings! Geralt and Jaskier banter! And _oh yes_ , that settee is about to find out just how sturdy it is under two men who've been waiting twenty goddamn years to screw each other's brains out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, people, this update clocks in at a whoopin' 10,000+ words. Because apparently, Geralt and Jaskier weren't satisfied with the originally planned, somewhat short sex scene and said, " _Nah_ , we're having none of that," and my brain said, "Okay. Let's go with 7500+ words of foreplay and explicit Geraskier sex then." You're welcome. 😘
> 
> [Jaskier - Her Sweet Kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cW3zB_AGXIk)
> 
> Now, before you start reading, I very highly recommend that you listen to the above song at a 0.75 playback speed first. I wish it could be set to 0.80 speed instead because that's about the perfect tempo I'd imagined, but there's no option for that on Youtube. As to why--well, you'll know when you reach that part of this update. *grin*
> 
> Soundtrack: [Pride and Prejudice OST - Your Hands Are Cold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbs6oxUxKZ8)
> 
> Hands down the most exquisite music ever for that earth-shattering first kiss. _Oh yeah_. 
> 
> Let's kick things off with gorgeous Geralt, while he's gazing at Jaskier, and that iconic bathtub moment:  
>   
> 

Three days later, Geralt’s sojourn in Yennefer’s manor came to an abrupt end.

In those three days, Jaskier had spent as much time as he could with Geralt, waking up at dawn and finding Geralt already outside his bedroom, waiting for him. They would take their time walking down the wooden stairs, with him gripping the banister in one hand and Geralt’s hand in the other. He was getting bigger and heavier by the day, it seemed, and moving up or down the stairs had begun to cause him anxiety, beleaguering him with perturbing visions of tripping and falling headlong down the steps, and hurting his baby.

Geralt had chased away those visions with the promise that he would always accompany Jaskier when he was here.

Jaskier had done his utmost to ignore the implication that Geralt might have no choice but to leave his side, sooner or later. The world and its monsters and wars didn’t cease to exist beyond the boundaries of the manor just because he wished it was true.

On the first day, Ciri had distracted him from his worry by attempting a basic pyrokinetic exercise under Yennefer’s supervision to light a candle—and instead had blown out all the windows of Yennefer’s workroom on the ground floor with a fireball. He and Geralt had been in the flower gardens behind the manor, and witnessed the windows exploding from a safe distance. In the time he’d gasped and covered his mouth with a hand, Geralt had sprinted across the gardens to the shattered windows, shouting Ciri’s name.

Then Ciri had appeared at what remained of a window.

“Geralt! We’re all right!”

She’d been grinning from ear to ear, her ashen-grey hair frizzled high, her face and clothes spattered with smoke stains. Without waiting for a response from Geralt, she’d turned and retreated into the workroom, yelling with no small amount of exhilaration, “Yennefer, let’s do that _again!_ ”

The stumped, wide-eyed glance Geralt had given him after swiveling around, and Geralt’s frantic scuttle from the scene when a small fireball shot out of the wrecked workroom, had turned him into a laughing loon clutching at his belly.

They’d spent the second day lounging in the first living room, the largest one that overlooked the front courtyard and had a spectacular fireplace, plus the comfiest settee on which Jaskier had the delight of draping himself. It was like sinking into a cloud. It was heaven for his aching lower back.

Geralt had sat beside him on the settee, resting his hand on the pronounced bulge of Jaskier’s belly. Geralt had asked him about the baby. Asked him to tell everything he knew about their unborn son, from his energetic tumbles to his witcher-strong kicks to his curious nudges.

Jaskier had cheerfully indulged Geralt, babbling on and on, interrupted now and then by said baby’s nudges or wriggles. Geralt’s whole face had softened every time he felt the movements under his palm—and Jaskier memorized each visage for safekeeping in his mental palace, more treasures that all the gold on the Continent could never buy.

Geralt hadn’t spoken about the months they’d been separated from each other, and Jaskier hadn’t pressured him to do so. He remembered how terrible Yennefer had appeared the day she had returned to the manor with Geralt and Ciri. He remembered how terrible Geralt had also appeared, starving, weary to the marrow.

The third day had been an indolent one: he and Geralt had lounged in the manor’s library, with Geralt reading a book of folktales to him and their baby, lulling him into a contented haze. After a bountiful dinner, Ciri had confided to him that, throughout the week before Yennefer found them, Geralt had given her all the scant food and water they could scrounge up. Geralt hadn’t slept a wink for as long, pushed to the limits from fighting and killing Nilfgaardian squads or platoons that gained on them. The soldiers had overwhelmed Geralt more than once.

The darkness in Ciri’s hooded eyes while she’d recounted all that had weighed on Jaskier’s mind all night and into the next day.

The very day Geralt’s sojourn ended, when Yennefer returned from another solo journey out in the world and relayed news that Geralt couldn’t disregard. Not if he was a good man, a good friend.

“You’re sure?” Geralt growled. “Royal wyverns?”

His hands were fists at his sides, and Jaskier could see their veins jutting out from how taut they were.

“Yes,” Yennefer said, still wearing her furred coat. “Eskel said so. Three of them. A mated pair and their fledgling.”

They were standing in the front courtyard, encircled by lilac trees always in full bloom, under a late afternoon sun sinking into the evening gloom. The red jewels on Jaskier’s cropped, high-collared, maroon doublet glimmered in its diminishing light.

He stood nearer to Geralt than Yennefer, enough that he could reach out and touch one of those taut fists if he chose to. He crossed his arms over his chest instead, his hands gripping his own tense upper arms.

Geralt let out a huff of breath that a dragon would envy for its vehemence.

“And Lambert is down,” Geralt said to himself. “Eskel is on his own.”

Yennefer gazed at him with a neutral expression. Jaskier’s expression was its acute opposite: he stared at Geralt with wide eyes naked in their apprehension, biting his lower lip. He’d yet to see a royal wyvern in person, but Geralt had once described the beast to him, while he’d been composing a song about the White Wolf battling a wyvern. If a wyvern was savage, its red-skinned cousin was the very definition of a bloodthirsty monster: it was huge, intelligent, far more aggressive, with enormous, sharp teeth that delivered a venomous bite capable of killing a man in minutes. It had no fear of humans, armed or not. If somebody encountered one while it was feeding, one had best pray to the gods to survive its assault.

Eskel was a witcher. The closest thing Geralt had to a brother, who had grown up with Geralt at Kaer Morhen, and endured the witcher trials together. Jaskier remembered Geralt’s fond smile when he’d related a childhood story of how the two of them had captured a gigantic forest bumblebee and tied it to a jug, and laughed their arses off at its frolics.

Eskel was confronting three royal wyverns on his own.

Without Geralt’s help, he would surely suffer a gruesome death.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured.

Geralt was now gazing at him with those heavy-lidded, tender eyes. Jaskier stared into them—and it took him far longer than it should for him to understand what Geralt was seeking from him. His heart rocketed up into his throat when he did. He swallowed past it, digging his fingers into his upper arms.

His brave, beautiful, devoted witcher was seeking his permission to go.

With a single word, Geralt would stay here if that was what he wished. Geralt would stay, even if it meant his childhood friend, his brother in the ways that mattered, died in the crushing jaws of three royal wyverns.

“The people need their hero, Geralt,” Jaskier said, his lips wobbling up into a supportive smile. “I didn’t compose and sing all those songs just for you to lie low like a worm in the soil.”

The relief, the _love_ he saw in those amber eyes made his proud, wrenched heart puff up all the more.

Within twenty minutes, Geralt was outside the stables in his black armor, buckling his leather satchel of witcher potions onto Roach. His sword was sheathed on his back, ready to be whipped out in an instant.

Ciri was also there with Jaskier and Yennefer to see Geralt off. While Yennefer opened the portal, Ciri gave Geralt a tight hug around his waist, resting her head on his armored chest. He hugged her back, gazing down at her with those unfeigned, warm eyes that Jaskier had come to cherish so much.

After Ciri stepped away, and Geralt gazed at him, he was mortified to find himself unable to move, on the verge of weeping. He gritted his teeth and maintained his restrained expression. He was unflustered, until Geralt strode up to him and clutched him in a desperate embrace, pressing that handsome face to the side of his neck, inhaling his scent with deep, long breaths.

He snapped like a frail twig underfoot. He pressed his crumpling face into Geralt’s neck above the collar of his black undershirt, and squeezed his wet eyes shut. He felt Geralt’s long, white hair brush his forehead. Felt Geralt’s hands rubbing his heaving back, touching his belly. Felt their baby boy wriggle, as if he was wishing his witcher father well, but not saying goodbye.

Jaskier couldn’t bear to say goodbye, either. He’d never done that before to Geralt. He wasn’t about to start now.

He stared up into Geralt’s eyes after Geralt reluctantly detached himself with two gentle hands on his slumped shoulders. Geralt cupped his lower jaw with a gloved hand, and traced his lower lip with a thumb.

They had yet to kiss.

They’d only known for days that their decades-old feelings for each other were requited. There was still so much to bring into the light, so much to unpack from the past few months, much less the past twenty years. Jaskier didn’t want their first kiss to be a rushed, thoughtless thing. He didn’t want it to be something that Geralt felt compelled to give him, out of some warped sense of guilt over the violation of his body that wasn’t at all.

He certainly didn’t want it to be a farewell kiss.

He stretched up his right hand to Geralt’s face, and also traced Geralt’s lower lip with his thumb. Geralt’s eyes crinkled with affection, with understanding.

“You’re going to cook that beef stew for me again,” he rasped, glowering.

Geralt’s eyes crinkled more as he replied, “I said I would. I’m a man of my word, aren’t I?”

If Jaskier had a response to that, Yennefer overrode it with a call of Geralt’s name. It was time for the witcher to head out.

Geralt climbed into the saddle with an effortlessness that few people possessed. Roach shook her head and took a few steps backwards, neighing, her hooves clomping on the ground, raring to go eyeball to eyeball with the most dire perils. She was so much like her master that way.

Geralt stared at Jaskier, as if he was memorizing the entirety of him, committing the moment to his own mental palace for safekeeping. The closed-lipped smile he gave his witcher was steady, full of hope and pride. Geralt nodded at him.

Ciri walked up to his left side as they watched Roach gallop through the portal. She slipped under his arm and wrapped her arms around his rotund belly and lower back, resting her head on his chest.

“He’ll come back, Jaskier,” she murmured. “You’ll see.”

He gave her slim torso a squeeze with his left arm and said nothing. He swiped his right hand over his damp eyes, and tried not to think about whether he’d just seen Geralt for the last time. Perhaps he should skip dinner. Go back to the privacy of his bedroom, and have a good cry into the pillow. He might as well let it all out in one night and get it over with.

Yennefer was apparently having none of that.

“Come on, you fat crybaby,” she said, after shutting the portal and smacking him on the arm. “It’s your favorite time of the day. Eating time!”

She cared for him in her own abrasive manner, and he loved her for it. He huffed and rolled his sore eyes.

“I am not fat! I am _voluptuous!_ There’s a difference, Yennefer,” he exclaimed, wagging his finger at her. “Nuances to be respected!”

Ciri smacked a hand over her mouth and burst into giggles. Yennefer rolled her eyes at Jaskier. But she also linked her arm with his as the three of them sauntered back into the manor, while he educated them both on the virtues of his particular brand of voluptuousness.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

There was no news whatsoever from Geralt for days. Yennefer had given him a new summoning amulet after he’d lost the previous one while fleeing from the Nilfgaardian army, and while she could track him with it, he had yet to use it. Yennefer had commented to Jaskier that this was good rather than bad. There were only two reasons Geralt would summon her: if it wasn’t to open a portal for his return, it was a last resort to save his arse from becoming a nutritious royal wyvern meal.

Three royal wyverns required much planning and time to slaughter, even for two expert witchers like Geralt and Eskel.

Nevertheless, Jaskier’s mood was despondent at best. For five days, he didn’t leave his bedroom, having all his meals served there. He didn’t cry as much as he thought he would the night Geralt left, although a part of him was embarrassed that he even did—that he had so little faith in his witcher returning to him safe and sound.

Perhaps he was scared that he’d simply dreamed Geralt’s return into his life. Simply dreamed that Geralt loved him back, loved him at all, like he’d fantasized for so many years.

Perhaps it was all right to be scared, because it meant he had a heart that felt so much for his beloved witcher he was missing with every fiber of his being.

He spent time knitting more clothing for his baby, and a pair of socks for Ciri. He tried to compose new songs, but all the lines that emerged on the pages of his notebook were desolate, packed with tragedy and death.

It was also next to impossible to find a word that rhymed with wyvern. Who came up with that dopey name, anyway?

Ciri insisted on accompanying him for every dinner in his room. She would sit at the foot of the bed with her plate in hand, while he sat on a chair at the cleared writing desk. On the fourth day of Geralt’s absence, he joked to her that Geralt must have instructed her to be his chaperone so he would take care of himself and not worry too much.

“Yes,” she replied, her expression earnest. “And when you use the stairs, someone has to be with you at all times. Because he wants you to feel safe.”

Then she resumed eating, oblivious to Jaskier gaping at her, feeling his brimming heart all the way up in his throat again.

On the sixth evening, she accompanied him down the stairs to the dining room for dinner with Yennefer. Yennefer was clearly preoccupied with challenging ruminations, her eyebrows lowered in a pensive frown, her eyes at half-mast and glazed while she stared into the distance. Although her right hand gripped a fork, her left hand constantly tapped the polished surface of the table.

Jaskier and Ciri spoke to each other with hushed voices across the table. He knew enough from Ciri that Yennefer had been cooped up in her personal library since Geralt left, busy with research for something she wouldn’t tell Ciri. He supposed she’d been sifting through all her scrolls and tomes with a fine-toothed comb for any information on that ancient, magical oak tree in Caed Myrkvid.

“I’m going to find that damn tree,” Yennefer muttered to herself.

She flung her fork on her full plate, stood up without another word, and strode out of the dining room, absent-mindedly touching Ciri’s head as she passed.

Jaskier stared after her, pursing his lips. He had a rather good idea why the sorceress was so determined to find the tree, and it made his chest throb even as he also felt a shudder of uneasiness. She’d been, after all, crazed enough to attempt becoming a djinn’s vessel just to become a mother—and unlike the djinn, this magical oak tree had irrefutable evidence of its unbelievable ability to successfully graft a functional womb into a human. A human _man_.

“Why is she searching for a tree?”

Jaskier gave Ciri a wide-eyed glance, then lowered his eyes to his quarter-full plate of savory potato-and-cheese dumplings, and cleared his throat.

“Well.” Jaskier glanced at her again, smiling graciously. “The tree she wants to find isn’t just any tree. It’s a magical tree. It’s some sort of ancient, powerful entity.” He cleared his throat a second time. “It’s the reason I’m—pregnant.”

Ciri didn’t so much as blink at him.

“Ciri.” He gestured with both hands at his rotund belly, his brows furrowed. “Aren’t you—perturbed by this? It’s not everyday that a man becomes _pregnant_.”

She stared at him with a solemn expression that belonged on a person decades older. He rested his hands on the table top, and smoothed his own expression into a benign one.

Her placid reply struck him into stunned silence.

“The witch’s name was Fringilla. She and a platoon of Nilfgaardian soldiers ambushed me and Geralt in the woods somewhere. I don’t really know where.” She lowered her glassy eyes to his chest, and said, “There were too many of them for Geralt to fight back this time. He tried so hard, but they overpowered him, and dragged him away. I could hear them beating him up outside the tent Fringilla dragged me into. He kept shouting my name.”

Jaskier could do nothing but stare at her with eyes stark with dismay.

“She told me that Grandmother’s flesh was delicious. That they had chopped her up and thrown the frozen parts to the dogs to eat.” Ciri’s hands on the table, framing her half-full plate, were relaxed. “She said that after the soldiers were done with me, if I was still alive, she would tie me to a horse, and haul me across gravel until I was dead. She laughed.”

She raised her eyes to gaze into his. Her hooded eyes were centuries older than any child’s eyes should ever be.

“Then Geralt charged into the tent, covered in blood. He stabbed his sword through her head. I watched her die at my feet.”

She picked up her fork and resumed eating, chewing and swallowing her dumplings without trouble. Jaskier stared at her, torn between striding around the table to hug her and losing himself in the images that swamped his mind: Geralt, drenched in the blood of dead Nilfgaardian soldiers, thrusting his sword through the witch’s skull with a snarl, spraying a fountain of blood on the tent walls. Geralt, stumbling upon seeing Ciri alive and unharmed, and hugging her tight while she cried in relief, his eyes squeezed shut.

No, Jaskier did not have to speculate anymore why Geralt had yet to divulge anything about those few months on the run from the Nilfgaardian army.

“Geralt told me that all the pain he endured for me was worth it. Because I’m his Child Surprise.” Ciri sliced a dumpling in half with her fork. “Because I’m one of the greatest blessings he’s ever been given in his life.” She raised her head to catch his eye once more. The lugubrious glint in her eyes was gone. “Do you know who else he considers the same, Jaskier?”

He wanted to shake his head, to say, _no, I don’t know_.

But he knew.

His heart had known the moment his eyes had locked with Geralt’s fervent, wide ones for the first time since they split paths in Gulet, long before his head did.

“You,” Ciri murmured, her face softening with a merciful smile. “And his baby with you.”

She forked half a dumpling into her mouth. She hummed with relish. Her eyes closed, and that was perhaps an even more merciful thing than her smile, for Jaskier had to suck in his lower lip in an irrepressible reaction. Dig his fingernails into his palms. Swallow with a prickling throat, and then blink away tears of gratitude for the rare gift of a brave, beautiful child’s unconditional acceptance and love.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

If the red jewels of Jaskier’s cropped, high-collared doublet had glimmered under the setting sun, they sparkled in the illumination of the living room’s lit, spectacular fireplace. He idly picked at an embroidered, red flower on his beige, ankle-length tunic, near the trim of his doublet. He was as clueless as ever about how and why his armoire was crammed with these superb cropped doublets and jackets, and resplendent tunics that still fitted his expanding body like a dream.

Yennefer was perhaps much nicer to him that she would ever admit, even under threat of maltreatment and demise.

“Jaskier, sing me a song that no one else has heard before.”

Ciri was lounging in an armchair perpendicular to the settee that was just as comfy. She gazed at him with buoyant eyes. He took his time sitting upright, and made a show of fluffing up the paisley-patterned pillows he’d stuffed behind his lower back and against his flanks. He wasn’t delaying his response to Ciri because he didn’t want to sing. What sort of bard would he be if he _didn’t_ rejoice in singing?

Oh no, the reason was, if he was going to sing one of his songs for royalty, it had to be a finished song. A song he would be proud to sing. A song from the very depths of his debouching heart. There was only one finished song in his collection that fitted the bill, that he’d never sung within earshot of anyone else, and only once to himself. He had _very_ good reason for that. Multiple good reasons.

Some could argue that composing its first incarnation and singing snippets of it within hearing of other people meant that other people had already heard it before. The initial lyrics had been so stripped of disguise that anyone would have figured out in seconds that they were about a certain amber-eyed, white-haired witcher. He could recall them now, as if his notebook was open before his eyes to that damning page:

So tell me, love  
You make me your drudge  
How is that just?

If I were a man of more merit  
If I were a man of resolve  
I’d leave you behind  
Get me some peace of mind  
From a bottle of grain alcohol

They made him cringe now, but at the time of writing them, Geralt had taken Yennefer as a lover, and he’d been—hurting. He’d been sitting alone on a boulder by the road in the middle of nowhere, guzzling that very bottle of grain alcohol under the noon sun. When not a drop was left, he’d hurled his notebook on the ground, hurled the bottle at the nearest tree, then bellowed his misery at the cloudless sky. Then he’d kicked the boulder, and promptly toppled over to grab his bruised foot.

It hadn’t been one of his finest moments.

By the time he’d completed the first incarnation of the song, he’d used just two of those lines. That incarnation had only been sung a sprinkling of times to himself in the open, with tangible anger and heartbreak—and never, ever within Geralt’s hearing.

The second incarnation of the song was one he never, ever intended to sing within Geralt’s hearing either.

“You do have a song like that, don’t you!”

Ciri had curled her legs under her on the armchair. Her golden dress billowed around her. She had that ear-to-ear grin, her emerald green eyes bright with a knowing gleam.

Jaskier bowed his head and couldn’t help smiling at her infectious enthusiasm. What sort of bard would he be, really, if he didn’t appreciate an eager audience?

“All right, all right, yes, I do,” he replied, ensconcing himself on the settee, still sitting upright and facing the lit fireplace. “It’s just—”

Ciri tilted her head to one side, her grin subsiding to a small smile that was no less genuine. “It’s just what?”

“No one has ever heard this song before, except for me.” Jaskier shook his head once, then murmured, “It’s not for me. It’s—”

He cut himself off, but he had the gut feeling that it was too late. Ciri, he should have remembered, was a very astute girl.

She stared at him, and said, “It’s for Geralt. Isn’t it?”

Heat flooded his cheeks. He lowered his eyes and stared at the flickering flames consuming the logs in the fireplace. She was right: after Geralt and Yennefer ended their relationship as lovers, and decided to be friends, he’d written the second incarnation of the song the night Geralt told him the news. Unlike the first incarnation, he’d crooned this one at a slower tempo, transforming it into an impassioned, slow song of unrequited love—and a yearning heart that refused to stop hoping for an amber-eyed, white-haired witcher to kiss him, to love him back.

“Will you sing it, anyway?” Ciri hugged a paisley pillow to her chest, smiling again. She shrugged. “Geralt isn’t here.”

He glanced at her, then at the fireplace again. He drew in a long breath that caught slightly at its end. She was also right about that: Geralt wasn’t here to hear the song. She already knew it was about Geralt. So what was the harm of him singing it now? Just this once?

He let out a dramatic sigh. She bit her lip, bouncing on the armchair. An amused chuckle erupted from him, and she chuckled as well, rocking from side to side in victory. Truly, who was he to deny the princess of Cintra?

He made another show of fluffing the pillows around him. Tugged his embroidered tunic so it flowed over his belly and legs in a cascade of red stalks of flowers and jewels. Shook his head once to resettle his medium-length, thick hair.

Then, gazing into the flames, he opened his mouth and sang, mesmerizing and slow:

The rarest gem, some surely call it  
But my love for you hurts like a hook  
It steals all my reason  
Commits every treason  
Of logic, with naught but a look  
A storm brewing on the horizon  
Of longing and heartache and lust  
You flip all my views  
You leave me no cues  
So tell me, love, tell me, love  
How is that just?

But the story is this  
You’ll destroy with your sweet kiss  
Your sweet kiss  
But the story is this  
You’ll destroy with your sweet kiss

Your current is pulling me closer  
And charging the hot, humid night  
The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool  
Better stay out of sight

His eyes fluttered shut, and _there_ , he saw Geralt standing on the clean coast of the sea, his long, white hair loose and shining under the sunlight. Geralt, gazing at him with those heavy-lidded, tender eyes, his lips curving up in that extraordinary smile that brightened his whole face, his whole being.

His voice broke on the next line:

I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting  
If this is the path I must trudge  
I welcome my sentence  
Give to you my penance  
Gorgeous garroter, jury and judge

But the story is this  
You’ll destroy with your sweet kiss  
Your sweet kiss  
But the story is this  
You’ll destroy with your sweet kiss  
But the story is this  
You’ll destroy with your sweet kiss  
Your sweet kiss  
But the story is this  
You’ll destroy me, my white wolf  
The story is this  
You’ll destroy me with your sweet kiss

In the wake of the final, drawn-out note, he kept his eyes shut for several more seconds. He heard the wood crackling in the fireplace. He heard nothing from Ciri.

He fluttered his eyes open, then turned his head to look at her. She was staring at him with a tiny smile and glistening eyes, her long hair pouring over her shoulders. Her arms were wrapped loosely around the pillow on her lap.

“That was beautiful, Jaskier,” she murmured.

And from the open double doors of the living room, a deep, gravelly, sensual voice—one that Jaskier knew like no other, that still sent such lightning-hot bolts of longing and heartache and lust shooting through him—rasped, “Yes. It was.”

He shut his eyes again, swallowing hard.

“Geralt!”

He heard Ciri leap from the armchair and dash around it to the doorway where Geralt stood. Jaskier opened his eyes, then shifted on the settee in time to gaze over its right arm at Geralt receiving Ciri with open arms into a hug. Geralt was dressed in a navy blue linen shirt, dark brown trousers, and boots. His hair was neat, tied in his typical half-up, half-down ponytail style. A leather satchel was set on the wooden floor next to his feet.

Geralt had returned to him, safe and sound.

Geralt was staring at him as he hugged Ciri, with such fervent, transfixing eyes.

Oh gods, Geralt had heard him sing that song.

Ciri, now standing at Geralt’s right side, glanced at Jaskier and said, “See, I told you he’d come back! He always does.” Then she glanced up at Geralt. “Isn’t Jaskier’s singing just lovely?”

Jaskier cleared his throat, and had to rip his eyes away from Geralt’s to be able to speak.

“Geralt said my singing is like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.”

Ciri gasped in outrage, glancing up at Geralt again with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. Jaskier’s lips tremored with mirth. He tempered them into an indignant pout.

“Yes, it was downright indecorous of him!” He exaggerated his pout, averting his face. “It really hurt my feelings.”

Ciri punched Geralt on the arm, hard enough that the witcher grunted and then rubbed at the sore portion with a hand. Jaskier had to slap a hand over his mouth to not chortle at Geralt’s boyish, sulky pout. It took decades off Geralt’s age.

Geralt schooled his handsome features into an equally boyish, innocuous expression, and said to Ciri, “It’s true—only when he’s singing songs that aren’t about me.”

Ciri giggled at that. Jaskier’s face burned, and he lowered his eyes, pressing his tremoring lips together.

“They’re all about you,” he murmured, gazing down at the pillows on the settee.

When he raised his head to look at Geralt again, he saw that tiny, affectionate smile that crinkled those alluring amber eyes.

“I know,” Geralt said.

Ciri grinned at them both, glancing at Geralt then at Jaskier, then at Geralt again. Then she schooled her youthful features into her own innocuous expression, and said, “Hm, I think I heard Yennefer calling for me. I better go find out what she wants. Good night!”

She skipped away into the passageway and out of sight before either man could speak. As soon as they glanced at each other, Geralt broke into an amused smile and shook his head, while Jaskier let out the chortle he’d been suppressing, smacking one of the pillows.

His mirth held out until Geralt stepped into the living room with the leather satchel slung over one shoulder—and then turned around to close the double doors. The click they emitted when they were fully shut made a frisson of anticipation and lust undulate down his spine.

If the click of the inn room door shutting in Gulet had been the sound of his whole world ending, the click of these double doors shutting under Geralt’s hands was the sound of a whole new world beginning. For the two of them.

Geralt sauntered to the settee and set the leather satchel on the floor next to it. He moved some of the pillows aside then sat beside Jaskier, angled towards him, a hand’s breadth of space between them. Jaskier scrutinized him from head to toe, and was pleased to see nary a wound or speck of dirt on Geralt. Geralt had probably bathed before summoning Yennefer to open a portal for his return.

The last thing Jaskier wished to talk about right now was the slaughter of royal wyverns.

It seemed Geralt had the same idea, for he said, “I’ve never heard you sing that song before.”

This close together, Jaskier couldn’t conceal the flush of his face, even when he averted it to gaze into the flames. He rested his hands on his thighs, pressing them to the swell of his belly.

“You never sang it in front of me, because you didn’t want me to know you were in love with me.”

Jaskier didn’t respond, but his silence an answer in itself.

“Because you didn’t want me to know how heartbroken you were. Over a love you thought unrequited.”

Jaskier’s throat bobbed in a long, visible swallow.

“In my defense,” he rasped, “I’d written it long before I discovered how you really feel about me.” He turned his head towards Geralt, gazing at the wolf medallion on Geralt’s hair-dusted chest. “And it wasn’t even the first version. I—there was an earlier one. A more—embittered one, you could say.” A puff of bitter laughter unfurled from his lips. “You never heard that one either. And I don’t intend to ever sing it for you.”

“Hmmn.” Geralt reached across the space between them to grasp his right hand, to draw it onto the settee between them. “Because it’s Yennefer’s kiss you would be warning me about?”

Jaskier stared down at their linked hands. Geralt, he should have remembered, was a very, very astute man when he chose to be.

“Was that what you really felt?” Geralt’s voice was low. Gentle. “That me taking Yennefer as a lover was a punishment to you? A sentence I imposed on you?”

Jaskier took cautious time to answer: in the months since Yennefer teleported him to this manor, she had become a genuine friend to him. Her past sexual relationship with Geralt was a closed, distant chapter to her.

“You can’t help who you fall in love with,” he eventually whispered.

Geralt tightened his hold on Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier squeezed the witcher’s large hand in return. It was wonderful to be able to touch him again, to just be close to him again.

“I’d be lying if I said the sex hadn’t been good.”

Jaskier tried not to grimace. Tried not to recall the memory of stumbling to the window and witnessing Geralt fucking Yennefer in the ruins of the mayor’s manor in Rinde—after he’d believed Geralt had died. He not only had the imagery but the sounds as proof of Geralt’s statement. But he did have to thank Yennefer for the _amazing_ sexual fantasies of Geralt he had after that incident, knowing what Geralt’s muscular, solid body looked like as the witcher’s hips rolled in that brutal, primal rhythm, as that lovely bottom flexed in the air.

Yennefer had, in fact, said the same words to him months ago, during one of their more candid conversations in the solarium.

_I’d be lying if I said the sex hadn’t been good, Jaskier._

_But what I had with Geralt was just a flame compared to your eternal conflagration for him._

“If there was anything I had fallen into with Yennefer, it was lust. She and I are bound by a wish I made to a djinn.”

Jaskier raised his eyes to the level of Geralt’s lips. They appeared supple and warm in golden light.

“Aren’t you and I bound in the same way?”

Jaskier finally looked Geralt in the eye. Geralt’s stare was fiery, merciless in pinning Jaskier in place.

“Twenty years. You’ve loved me for twenty years,” Geralt rasped. “Did you lie to me about that?”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. He tugged Geralt’s hand towards him and held it to his chest.

“Of course not, Geralt.” He rolled his eyes and said, “And it’s not twenty years. It’s twenty years, eight months, sixteen days and—” He lifted his left hand and made a show of counting with his fingers. “Ooh, I’d say about fifteen hours, give or take a few minutes here and there.”

Geralt’s face was lit up with that tiny, sweet smile again. He withdrew his hand from Jaskier’s, then wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, sliding across the hand’s breadth of space to him, careful of his rotund belly and their adored baby within.

“So.” With his arm still around Jaskier’s shoulders, Geralt rested a hand on Jaskier’s right thigh. “No djinn made you fall in love with me.”

Jaskier cleared his throat, his cheeks searing from more than the flames in the fireplace, his body flushed with warmth from the heat Geralt gave off. He lowered his eyes, his long, thick eyelashes fanning his cheeks, and replied, “No, that was all me.”

He felt Geralt’s eyes track his features.

“And no djinn, or any other magical force, made me fall in love with you either.”

Jaskier’s wide eyes snapped up to meet Geralt’s crinkled ones. He couldn’t contain his sharp intake of breath, or the shiver of pleasure that shook his body at hearing Geralt confess his feelings with such words. He’d been content to never hear them. Really, he had. Geralt was always more a man of action than words, and the witcher had already demonstrated incalculable times how much he loved Jaskier.

But Jaskier was a man of words. His soul thrived on arranging them into phrases and sentences that moved hearts and the earth beneath their feet, on saying and singing them. On hearing them—especially when they were said with love from the one he loved, who loved him in return.

“When?”

His whisper seemed to resound in the serene hush that enveloped them.

“Hmmn.” Geralt glanced up at the ceiling in an exaggerated gesture of contemplation, pursing his lips. “Probably the day I killed that selkiemore in Cintra. When you coerced me into that bath.”

Jaskier smacked a hand over his mouth, but he failed to rein in his snort and chortle. Geralt’s lips tremored with mirth as his reaction.

“Are you pulling my leg? Really? You fell in love with me during _that_ bath?” He leveled a mock scowl at Geralt. “You said you weren’t my friend!”

Geralt gazed at him with big puppy eyes that should be deemed thoroughly illegal in their ability to melt Jaskier’s heart.

“You also wisely pointed out that I don’t just let anyone rub chamomile onto my—” Geralt raised his eyebrows. “Lovely bottom.”

A gratified smile threatened Jaskier’s lips. Gods, he’d been in _paradise_ when Geralt commanded him to massage the chamomile oil all over that irresistible body. When Geralt dropped the towel and climbed onto the bed gloriously nude, Jaskier had raised his hands palms inwards, aimed his eyes towards the heavens and sent every deity up there a silent prayer of thanks for the magnificent feast of the senses he was about to partake in.

 _Gods_ , he and Geralt had been _so_ very blind, to not see how madly in love they’d always been with each other.

“And you said that you needed no one!”

“Lies.”

“And that the last thing you wanted was someone needing you.”

“More lies.”

“Really, Geralt.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together in a valiant effort to not grin like a lovesick idiot, reveling in his witcher’s wicked humor.

“Jaskier.” Geralt tilted his head, gazing at him with those puppy eyes once more. “Do you think I would dress like a _sad silk trader_ for just anyone?” Jaskier burst into a chuckle of amusement, and Geralt added, “Or save just anyone from being castrated by a seething lord for sticking his sausage in his wife?”

Jaskier clenched his left hand into a fist and playfully punched Geralt on the upper arm. It was like punching a brick wall—and the cheeky oaf didn’t even have the decency to grunt in mock pain.

“You said I had the face of a coward and a _cad!_ ”

Geralt raised a forefinger upright in the air.

“No, I said you had the face of a cad and a coward. There’s a difference—”

Jaskier punched him on the upper arm a second time, and those full lips tremored hard with mirth.

“I do _not_ have the face of a cad and a coward!” Jaskier gestured with both hands at his face, fluttering his eyelashes and knowing it was an enticing sight. “I have the face of a _lovable rogue_.”

Geralt schooled his features into an exaggerated stern expression of mock agreement, and nodded once, his amber eyes twinkling. Jaskier rolled his eyes at him, his traitorous lips curving up into a doting smile.

“And anyway, _that_ never happened! I never stuck my _sausage_ in his wife!” At Geralt’s amused look of disbelief, he exclaimed, “It’s true! I never had sex with his wife! Do you think I have a _pimply arse?!_ ”

He smacked what he could of his left arse cheek with his left hand. Geralt covered his quivering lips with a hand.

“No! My arse is a plump, smooth work of _artistic perfection_ that every other bard on this Continent would sing epic odes about, if I deigned to flaunt it at them!”

Geralt made his own valiant effort to put on a straight face.

“Even Valdo Marx?”

Jaskier curled his fingers into angry claws, and with a theatrical expression of loathing, he yelled, “That larcenous, obnoxious shite-stain on a ghoul’s decayed bollock! May he be struck down with incurable _dick rot_ and _DIE!_ ”

His silliness was utterly worth it for the priceless vision and sound of Geralt cracking up into contagious, full-bellied laughter, those broad shoulders shaking, those amber eyes scrunched shut with glee. Jaskier erupted into a full-bellied laugh of his own, throwing his head back and leaning against Geralt’s left arm, resting his hand over Geralt’s on his belly, over their slumbering baby. When Geralt leaned that head of long, white hair on his shoulder, he leaned his head on his witcher’s, still laughing.

By Melitele, he’d missed Geralt so much. He was so glad his beloved witcher was unharmed and back at his side. So glad to have him at all, after the decades of waiting and hoping.

Jaskier lifted his head when he felt Geralt move his. Geralt touched their temples together, staring down at their connected hands. Jaskier stroked Geralt’s hand with his fingers.

“What was it that you also said to me, during that bath?”

Geralt sat back so they could look each other in the eye, and when they did, Jaskier knew exactly which moment Geralt was thinking about, and which line he’d said to Geralt.

 _Maybe someone out there will want you_.

He inwardly cursed his stupid cheeks for heating up so much tonight. He lowered his eyes to the endearing dimple in Geralt’s chin.

He remembered that bath in Cintra like it’d occurred yesterday: Geralt grunting like a boor after he dumped that pail of clean water over his head, and him ambling around the room, busying himself so he wouldn’t end up ogling Geralt in the tub like the lovelorn fool he’d been. He’d failed at least twice. He’d been a total masochist to kneel at the foot of the tub and prop his forearms on its rim, knowing he’d bow to temptation and _look_.

It had been the closest he’d come to blurting out his feelings to Geralt. He’d hoped so much that Geralt would hear the message underneath those words.

_See me. Please, see me, and take this heart that has been yours to keep from the moment I laid eyes upon your incomparable face._

Geralt pulled him even closer to that muscle-bound, hot body with the arm around his shoulders and a hand gripping the outer side of his left thigh. Callused, thick fingers ghosted across his lower jaw, then moved his head so they were gazing into each other’s eyes again.

“I’m weak, my love,” Geralt rasped, “and I am wanting.”

Jaskier’s hard swallow was audible. A fierce, gratifying pain made his chest throb, and it had nothing to do with heartbreak, and everything to do with that heart expanding enough to contain all the seas and their teeming life in the world.

“Subtlety’s never been my strong suit,” he said, his voice husky.

“It is.” Geralt paused, his expression deadpan. “If subtlety was an anvil dropped on a man’s head from the roof of a castle’s turret.”

Geralt let out a huff of laughter when Jaskier smacked him as energetically as he could on his broad, rock-hard chest. All that did was make his left hand sore. He yelped and retracted his hand—only for Geralt to seize it with his right hand.

Geralt drew it to those dark pink, full lips.

Pressed a long, tender kiss to its palm.

Jaskier gasped. Licked his lips, and sucked in another shuddering breath when Geralt kissed each of his fingers in turn. Sucking each one down to the second joint. Licking their lengths with such a patent look of hunger. Even with Geralt’s firm grip around his wrist, his hand—his entire body trembled with euphoric shock. With spiraling lust.

He was profoundly aware of how Geralt’s body pressed to his from shoulder to thigh. Nothing existed anymore beyond the sanctuary of Geralt’s embrace. He felt suspended out of time and space, teetering on the edge of a cliff high above turbulent waves smashing into rock far below.

Geralt nosed at his wrist. Inhaled his scent there deeply into that mighty chest, then kissed it. Laved it with a hot, wet tongue, as if it was a dainty appetizer before a splendid banquet.

Jaskier licked his lips again, and Geralt chased the movement with heavy-lidded, ravenous eyes. Geralt lowered his hand, just enough to press it to that shaved cheek, the hinge of that angular jaw.

Their eyes locked once again—and Jaskier could feel the verge of that cliff under his feet. Feel the wind blowing past him, preparing to snatch him up. Hear the waves far below beckoning him to drown in them.

“Geralt,” he whispered, his lips quivering.

Geralt glanced down at his lips, and licked his own.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, rough, and his name truly did sound as if it encompassed Geralt’s whole world.

They leaned towards each other in sync, angling their heads, their eyes fluttering shut, their lips parted in welcome. Jaskier sank into Geralt, sliding his left hand up to card his fingers into Geralt’s hair. His right hand pressed on Geralt’s chest, over that noble, substantial heart that thundered in time with his. Geralt’s left arm tightened around his shoulders. The witcher’s right hand squeezed his upper left thigh. Their chests brushed with each ragged inhalation.

He and Geralt were heading into that brewing storm of longing and heartache and lust.

The inescapable, inevitable current that was Geralt was calling to him, pulling him in.

Inviting him to leap over the edge.

Their lips brushed with scarcely any pressure. Jaskier made a faint, tremulous sound, and then Geralt’s hand grasped his nape and tugged him in—and finally, _finally_ , their lips met in an all-consuming, blazing crash twenty years in the making.

He pitched forward. The wind caught him in the breaking storm.

And he _soared_.

He moaned into Geralt’s mouth. His breath hitched when Geralt sank those teeth, those _fangs_ into his lower lip and sucked on it. Traced the seam of his mouth with his tongue. He tightened his fingers in Geralt’s hair, and in one swift heartbeat, Geralt was taking over, taking over _him_ , crushing his lips again and again with blistering, urgent kisses. Every brush of their mouths, every latch of their lips was replete with the pure love, lust, and _need_ they had for each other. It was raw and unstoppable and everything Jaskier had hoped for their first kiss.

The slide of Geralt’s tongue against his sent shudders of pleasure through him. So potent was his imagination that he could already _feel_ Geralt’s tongue all over his body, down his neck, along his collarbones, across every vulnerable place that no one else had ever touched. Geralt gripped the back of his head, tipping it back. Geralt kissed him hard as if each kiss was the first and the last. Licked into his gasping mouth, stopping for the briefest moments to draw in breath, then dived back in for more, _more_.

Jaskier was powerless to do anything but cling onto Geralt’s hair, onto his linen shirt. He widened his mouth and accepted everything Geralt gave him, whimpering his jubilation, his eyes popping open and sightless when Geralt rucked up his tunic. Up, up, _up_ until it bared his smooth legs, pooled around his hips on the settee—and then Geralt slid a hand under its folds. Between his thighs.

Jaskier tore his mouth from Geralt’s, panting. He couldn’t recall ever being this wildly aroused, this breathless, and he let out a broken moan when Geralt enclosed that callused, large hand around his cock. He was so hard that he could feel the dripping head grazing the lower swell of his belly. Geralt stroked his cock languidly, torturously, reducing him to a shivering mess.

To his mortification, he was on the brink of an orgasm in seconds. It wasn’t like he hadn’t masturbated in the past months: he had, once in a long while, in the dimness of his bedroom, when he couldn’t stop thinking about Geralt and ached too much for the witcher.

But it was Geralt’s hand around his cock.

Geralt, twisting his wrist on the stroke up in a way that spurred another moan out of Jaskier, thumbing the head of his cock to gather the pre-come there and slick his hand.

Geralt, making his toes curl in his leather shoes, making him ready to come with just his hand and those wide amber eyes staring at his face.

 _Geralt_.

“Wait! No, please— _wait_.”

He grabbed Geralt’s forearm, and instantly, Geralt stopped stroking him and squeezed the base of his cock instead. He panted. Pressed his forehead to Geralt’s. Gradually, he retreated from the brink, calming down with Geralt’s other hand rubbing his back.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against Geralt’s mouth.

“Don’t be,” Geralt growled, and all that _hunger_ in his voice sent yet another shudder of anticipation and ecstasy through Jaskier’s burning body.

“I—” Jaskier swallowed. “I want you inside me, Geralt. All of you.” He gasped again, his eyes half open, seeing brilliant amber and nothing else. “I’ve—dreamed of it, of _you_ , for _twenty years_. Please, _please_ —don’t make me wait a second more.”

Geralt’s resonant growl of lust rumbled from his broad chest into Jaskier’s heaving one. Geralt’s right hand released his cock to palm the outer side of his left thigh, to smooth that strong hand over his tingling skin, until his fingers brushed the curve of his arse.

“Get on all fours on the settee,” Geralt commanded into his quivering, wet lips.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, and his hands fell to the settee and clawed at its velvet surface, his wretched attempt to avoid touching himself and blowing like a geyser.

“Yes,” he breathed. “ _Yes_.”

He toed off his shoes as Geralt yanked his leather satchel nearer and flipped it open to rummage in it. He stripped off his doublet, but not his tunic, shy about his hairless, naked body in front of Geralt. It appeared the same everywhere except his belly, and Yennefer had pointed out that he’d developed pale stretch marks on his lower belly. He’d yet to see them himself. He wasn’t certain if he wanted Geralt to see them now.

Geralt didn’t object to him leaving his tunic on, and he was grateful for it. Cupping his belly with his right hand, he carefully stood up, then turned around to face the settee. He arranged a few pillows into a low pile, then rucked up his tunic as he just as carefully settled himself on his hands and knees over the pile of pillows.

To his pleasant surprise, his back didn’t hurt. His belly was cradled by the pillows. It allowed him to stay on his hands and knees with ease—and rock his hips back, and swivel them.

He wore nothing under his tunic. He dragged it up over his arse onto his lower back with his right hand. He set his hand back on the settee. Waited for a reaction from Geralt.

In the ensuing hush, Geralt’s frayed breaths were reverberant.

Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, and gave his blatantly staring, standing witcher an impish grin.

“Told you my arse is a plump, smooth work of artistic perfection,” he drawled.

Geralt had taken off his linen shirt and untied his trousers. Geralt didn’t wear any anything under the trousers, and so his tremendous cock was already jutting out and up, so flushed and hard and _thick_. No, it wasn’t the first time Jaskier had seen Geralt’s cock, but to see it so tumescent, so primed to penetrate _him_ —it made him salivate. Made his arms weak, his insides tremble, his blood _sing_.

Without a word, Geralt shoved his trousers down to his shins, and knelt on the settee behind Jaskier. Jaskier was prepared for Geralt to grab an arse cheek. He stiffened and cried out from the thrill of Geralt bending down to sink his teeth into his arse cheek instead, just enough that he felt their shape in his skin, but not enough to hurt in any way. He bowed his head, his eyes squeezed shut.

Geralt licking the bitten area so hungrily, so reverently, elicited a raw whimper from him.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Geralt rasped against his wet skin.

Jaskier couldn’t breathe properly. At last, he was going to get what he’d yearned for so, so long. He was going to feel Geralt’s cock inside him—and he was always going to, because Geralt desired him. Only him.

His body moved on instinct. His thighs spread open, his hips tilting up in a wordless demand, an ardent plea.

“I’ll go as slow as I can.” There was the slightest quaver to Geralt’s voice. “But it will be deep.”

Jaskier glanced over his shoulder again, his lips parted. Geralt was upright once more, his handsome face flushed with ardor and warmth.

“Good,” Jaskier said, emphatic. “I said _all_ of you, Geralt. I’ll accept nothing less.”

Geralt’s exultant smile was dazzling in the firelight.

Jaskier hung his head down, hearing his own tattered breaths. He heard the sound of a bottle being uncapped. His fingers scratched at the settee’s cushion, leaving parallel trails of paler velvet.

He trembled when Geralt held his left hip with one hand. When Geralt’s oiled fingers touched and stroked his hole so lightly. The gentle contact went straight to Jaskier’s cock, making him leak. Geralt hummed in approval—and it was then that Jaskier realized that Geralt could _smell_ his pre-come. He pushed his hips frantically against Geralt’s fingers for a firmer touch.

One thick finger breached him.

He felt the pressure of it, the searing tingle through his arse and down the back of his bare thighs. It’d been a long time since he’d fingered himself, but the sensation was familiar to him. He appreciated the sting. The undeniable girth of Geralt’s fingers that were much thicker than his. That reached much deeper into him.

“Oh fuck, Geralt,” he moaned.

Geralt eased a second finger alongside the first. He rocked those fingers in and out, curving them down as he pulled back, teasing the sensitive ring of muscles at Jaskier’s hole each time. It felt good. Really fucking _good_. Jaskier rocked back for more, letting out a long moan that told Geralt how good his fingers were, how good _he_ was.

Geralt heard him. Geralt pushed those two fingers deeper, all the way down to the knuckles. It drove all rational thought out of Jaskier’s head. He let out a long, high-pitched whine, and shook. His hair was stuck to his face, damp with sweat, and his hands were sore fists on the cushions.

Then Geralt discovered that sweet spot, that spot that was _just_ right, crooking his fingers and stroking it unrelentingly. Jaskier gasped. His back arched as much as it could, and his hips worked in frenzied, little circles.

“You’re doing so good,” Geralt rasped, pushing his fingers down harder, massaging that spot that was driving Jaskier mad with pleasure.

“So good,” Jaskier gasped. “Feels—so good, _oh fuck_ —oh gods, Geralt—”

Geralt slid in a third finger, and Jaskier bit his lip almost hard enough to break skin. He reached back in desperation and clutched at Geralt’s hand on his left hip. He couldn’t get enough air. Each time he sucked in a breath, his lungs convulsed and refused to fill.

“Geralt—Geralt, please—I’m ready, _I’m ready_ —”

He whined again when Geralt withdrew his fingers, only quietening when Geralt covered his body with his own, Geralt’s right hand setting down next to his on the cushion. Geralt kissed his temple.

“Sshh, it’s all right. I have you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier strained his neck, trying to capture Geralt’s mouth with his. Geralt gave him what he wanted, pressing their lips together, sliding a hand under him to rub his rotund belly with reassuring circles.

“Please,” Jaskier whimpered.

Geralt’s hand slipped away from his belly. He felt it gripping his left hip again.

He felt Geralt’s cock pressing against his oiled hole, and it was so much bigger than three of Geralt’s fingers. Geralt shifted his hips forward in a continuous thrust—and after a moment’s resistance, the head of Geralt’s cock popped in. Jaskier’s gravid body welcomed him as if he was returning home, pulling him deeper and deeper.

“Yes, yes, finally, gods, _yes, please_ ,” Jaskier cried out, interspersed with craving, gasping breaths.

Geralt didn’t stop until he was flush against the ample curve of Jaskier’s arse, settled deep inside. Jaskier was completely filled up. Stretched beyond his every imaginings. He keenly felt every inch where their bodies touched. Felt Geralt’s heartbeat throbbing inside him.

There was no room in him for anything other than Geralt.

He felt Geralt’s fingers trace the hot place where his body stretched to accommodate his witcher’s prodigious cock. Felt Geralt’s harsh panting on his nape.

“Please, Geralt—don’t make me wait for you anymore,” Jaskier begged, little more than a hoarse whisper. He swallowed hard, but it did nothing. “Take me. Claim me. All of me.”

A feral and ferocious sound ripped its way out from Geralt’s chest.

He pulled back until he was almost popping out.

Then he drove forward to the hilt—and obeyed Jaskier.

The piercing cries that ripped from Jaskier’s mouth were just as loud as Geralt thrust into him again and again, barely controlled. Jaskier rocked back to meet him thrust for thrust as much as he was able. Geralt was tender and savage in unison. Although each thrust was intense, Geralt also had a firm grip on his left hip, making sure his belly wasn’t jostled. Geralt left open-mouthed kisses on his nape and neck.

Geralt shifted and angled his cock deeper. Bent down to tuck his face into Jaskier’s bared neck, and breathed hot and damp on his skin. When he lifted his head, he caught Jaskier’s mouth in an unfettered kiss, and Jaskier surrendered to it, grappling at Geralt’s neck, clenching his shaking fingers in cascading, white hair.

Then Geralt’s thrusts went from short, vigorous ones to deep, rolling ones that made their skin slap. Jaskier’s aching, hard cock was trapped between his belly and the pillows under it, and every thrust created delicious friction that sent more fire through his loins.

“Yes,” Geralt growled. “Sing for me, my songbird.”

Jaskier was aware, as if from a distance, of his sustained moaning, his shrill litany of _Geralt_ and _oh fuck_ and _please_. In accompaniment, Geralt made growling, starved noises that lit even more fire in Jaskier’s loins.

“Oh fuck—yes— _oh_ , Geralt, please—”

Geralt was so hard, so solid and _paramount_ inside him. He tightened his inner muscles as much as he could, and Geralt reacted with a rough thrust of his hips, going as deep as he could inside Jaskier. He tightened again, delighting in the broken, strident sound it tore from Geralt’s throat.

“I feel like—I’ve been made for you,” Jaskier gasped, his eyelids fluttering. “I was destined for you, but I _chose_ you too.”

The way Geralt moved in and out of him deprived him of any higher thought. Pure pleasure sang through his entire being. He could feel Geralt’s firm muscles rippling against his back even through his tunic. Geralt’s hips began to work faster, pulling out farther before thrusting back in to the hilt.

Jaskier arched up as much as he could to lick into Geralt’s mouth. The slight change in position made Geralt’s cock rub against that sensitive, sweet spot in him on each inward stroke, and with a moan, he planted his hands on the settee and took advantage of the leverage to meet Geralt’s quickening thrusts.

Now each thrust pounded a rapturous cry out of him and sent liquid heat through his whole body. He could feel his orgasm building inside him, coiling up at the base of his spine, He could feel how wide open he was stretched around his beloved witcher’s cock.

“Mine,” Geralt snarled into his ear, and Jaskier felt the word rumbling everywhere they touched, body and soul. “You’re _mine_ , Jaskier, all of you. _Forever_.”

Jaskier’s orgasm arched his body taut from head to toes like a bow string, then made it quake with the sheer force of it. It felt as if his orgasm was storming through him, drowning him in wave after wave of relentless pleasure. He was crying, perhaps. Gasping out sobs that made his lungs hitch. His cock jerked over and over, spurting come all over his tunic and the pillows under his gravid belly. A black mist crept in around the borders of his sight, and for what felt like an eternity of bliss, all he was conscious of was the blast of his blood through his ears and the galloping of his heart in his chest—and Geralt’s amber eyes staring at his face, drinking him in like the most refined nectar.

When Jaskier peeled his eyes open and floated back to his senses, he found himself upright and sprawled back against Geralt’s bare, broad chest, sitting on Geralt’s lap. He was wrung out and still panting, and so was Geralt. Geralt’s chest and shoulders heaved with each breath. Geralt’s eyes smoldered like the flames that still burned in the fireplace.

Geralt was still hilt-deep inside Jaskier, beginning to soften but so filling and thick. He let out a faint moan. Squeezed his thighs together to try keeping Geralt inside him.

Geralt pulled him in close and tight, one brawny arm crossing his chest, the other arm bracing his rotund belly. He could feel the fine tremors running through Geralt. Geralt gently wrapped a hand around his neck, then turned his head to meet a scorching kiss. Their mouths opened and molded together. Geralt hungrily sucked on Jaskier’s tongue, then his kiss-swollen lips.

Jaskier rested his right arm over Geralt’s. Weaved their fingers over his hammering heart. Geralt rubbed the lower swell of his belly and cupped it tenderly.

Despite his efforts, Geralt’s cock slipped out of him and nudged his inner thigh, leaving a wet trail on his skin. He whined in disappointment, but only a little—Geralt’s copious come was also leaking out of him. Right now, it was a sublime sensation. It meant that Geralt had found immense pleasure in him.

“You have no right to look so gorgeous when you come,” Geralt said into the corner of his pliant mouth.

Jaskier carefully shifted so that he sat sideways on Geralt’s lap, with Geralt’s left arm supporting his back and Geralt’s right arm enfolding his belly. He wrapped his own arms around Geralt’s neck. He gazed down at his witcher with eyes he knew were adoring and heavy-lidded.

“You have no right to be so perfect just by existing,” he murmured, caressing Geralt’s cheek with the back of his fingers, and he meant every word.

Geralt knew that. Geralt gazed up at him with round, unreserved eyes, and in them, he could see Geralt’s lingering surprise and fresh elation at Jaskier’s unconditional acceptance of all of him, as he was.

Jaskier would gladly spend the rest of their lives convincing Geralt of it.

“I see you,” he whispered. “Do you see me?”

Geralt’s eyes crinkled, and his lips quirked up in that tiny, affectionate smile that Jaskier would never tire of, no matter how many times Geralt gifted him with it.

“Yes, my love,” Geralt whispered back. “I finally do.”

The crushing kiss Geralt reeled him into now was simultaneously famished and sated, an astonishing thing that seemed to him to be a lifelong vow, ordained and sealed. It brought tears to his shut eyes, but he was smiling against Geralt’s curved lips.

Yes, Geralt’s sweet kiss had indeed destroyed him.

It had also remade him into something new—a lark soaring through the rich blueness of the sky, trilling to its heart’s content, while the sea below sang in accompaniment, in triumph with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, the first set of lyrics came directly from Jaskier's notebook in episode 1x06! The only word I added in was "drudge", which I figured he might have used to rhyme with "judge". 
> 
> In the next update: Look, these two idiots in love waited 20 years to make violent love, okay? You think they're satisfied with just one bout? NAY, THEY SAY. More intimacy! More words! And a bath!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the late update! Had technical problems, and lost my internet for a while. But bless the good folks who are still working despite the risks--they helped get my internet back, and here we are with the next update! Bless you all as well for your kind, lovely comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions. 🌹 They always make my day, and I'm so glad to know that y'all are enjoying the story, and that it is giving you some joy during these trying times. Keep staying safe, everyone.
> 
> Regarding the first set of lyrics in the previous update, [this wonderful person here](https://renegademe.tumblr.com/post/190527194388/ok-so-it-has-just-come-to-my-attention-that) took the time to jot down the legible lyrics in Jaskier's notebook in episode 1x06. Can you believe there are still people who think Jaskier isn't madly in love with Geralt, after seeing that?!
> 
> Let's kick off this update with Jaskier seeing Geralt having sex (yes, really):  
> 

Jaskier couldn’t keep his hands off Geralt. He stole as many kisses as he could while they relocated from the living room to his bedroom, grabbing the sides of Geralt’s head, plastering their open mouths and their loose-limbed bodies together, his round belly bumping into Geralt’s rippled one.

He had no idea where his doublet went, or his shoes, and he didn’t give a toss. He would have happily gone naked if it meant more kissing and touching Geralt, but Geralt had yanked down his tunic and growled that no one else got to see him unclothed. He’d declared that Geralt had better put on his linen shirt then, because no one else got to see _him_ unclothed either from now on.

It was probably for the best that he did keep his tunic on: Geralt’s come was still leaking from his arse and down his inner thighs.

Geralt had made love to him.

_Geralt of Rivia had made love to him._

“Geralt,” he murmured into his gorgeous witcher’s lips. “Geralt. _Geralt_.”

Geralt gave as good as he got, refusing to let him out of those brawny arms. Geralt rubbed his back, in particular his lower back, and it made him fall in love with the attentive man all over again.

In the distant past, he’d believed that he could fall in love with anyone at the drop of a hat. That all he had to do was look at the person, and _boom_ —there he went, cartwheeling head over heels, so convinced that this was it, this person was _the one_.

But none of them were.

How could they be, when he hadn’t known what love truly was until he had laid eyes on Geralt in that tavern in Posada?

He was so much wiser now. He _knew_ now, when he’d merely daydreamed before. What he’d felt for everyone before Geralt had been a paltry, pathetic thing. They were dull embers compared to the devastating, sea-vast inferno that was his darling witcher, and oh, he burned for Geralt. He _burned_.

“Jaskier.”

No, Geralt was pushing him back, but he wanted to kiss Geralt again, _he wanted_ —

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was gentle. “The stairs.” He huffed with amusement when Jaskier craned his head forward even with Geralt’s hands on his shoulders, puckered lips inches away from his. “ _Jaskier_ , we have to go up the stairs.”

After a half-hearted second of resistance, Geralt capitulated to Jaskier’s desire and crushed their lips together yet again, licking into his mouth. He shut his eyes and moaned back into Geralt’s mouth. Ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair that was still tied.

He didn’t protest this time when Geralt broke their umpteenth kiss a few seconds later. Geralt turned him to face the stairs, and he grabbed at the banister with a flailing hand.

“Stairs, yes, stairs,” he babbled, unconcerned about tumbling, not with Geralt right behind him all the way up. “Very good.”

At the head of the stairs, he felt Geralt’s face press into his nape. He felt the amused arch of Geralt’s lips on his skin, and Geralt’s hands cupping his belly from behind.

The journey to his bedroom from there protracted into one thrice longer thanks to Jaskier accosting Geralt against the passageway walls with more caresses and kisses. Even with his eyes shut, he trusted Geralt to not let him crash into any of said walls. Geralt guided them safely to the shut door of his bedroom. There, their passion banked into something simmering under their skin as they stared into each other’s crinkled eyes, their foreheads touching, Geralt pressing a hand to his rotund belly again.

Jaskier turned in Geralt’s embrace to open the door. Geralt’s arms fell away from him. He didn’t realize what was happening until he was already in the room, striding towards the bed: Geralt didn’t follow him in. He froze to a halt halfway between the door and the bed, then swiveled to see Geralt still standing in the doorway, gazing at him with those tender eyes and that tiny, sweet smile.

“Geralt.”

“Hmmn?”

The low, gravelly sound that came from Geralt’s lips was more of a hum than a grunt.

“What are you doing?”

Geralt’s forehead creased in a perplexed frown. He hesitantly pointed over his shoulder with a thumb and said, “I’m returning to my bedroom?”

Jaskier stared back with a perplexed frown of his own—until he realized why Geralt was going back to his own bedroom. Jaskier hadn’t given him explicit permission to come in, to stay. They’d already made love once, but they’d yet to discuss anything pertaining to sleeping arrangements.

They were still ascertaining their roles as lovers, their spaces.

At least, Geralt was. For Jaskier, his spaces were always Geralt’s, long before tonight. Decades long.

He looked Geralt in the eye and said, “Then you’re going the wrong way.”

He could pinpoint the instant Geralt understood what he meant. That sweet smile returned like a beam of summer sunshine to Geralt’s features, closed-lipped and crinkled-eyed. Geralt stepped into the room, then turned around to shut the door.

Jaskier could feel Geralt’s come sliding down his right inner thigh, scorching a trail down his skin.

Geralt was slower in turning around to face him again. When their eyes locked once more, when Geralt stared at him with eyes ablaze with renewed lust, Jaskier’s cock began to harden. He glanced down at Geralt’s groin. At Geralt’s massive cock already straining against the ties of his trousers.

Jaskier wanted to lie back, to let Geralt descend upon him and take everything he could offer to him. He wanted to be fucked hard, and sing in agony and pleasure for Geralt while his broad-shouldered, muscle-bound witcher pounded into him non-stop.

He wanted. Oh, he wanted _so much_.

And now, he didn’t have to hold back. Neither of them did.

They rushed across the space between them at the same time, colliding in a desperate tangle of lips and limbs. Jaskier wanted to cry out his euphoria at Geralt laying claim on him for the second time tonight. Geralt’s hands on him were possessive and ravenous, skimming all over his gravid body, pressing them together as close as two souls could be. Jaskier moaned when Geralt’s fingers twisted into his hair and tilted his head back, when Geralt claimed every part of his mouth that he could reach with his hot, wet tongue.

Geralt walked him backwards, their mouths still fused together, until the back of Jaskier’s knees met the edge of the bed. Geralt gripped his arms and helped him to sit down on it. He yanked his tunic up to his hips and spread his thighs, letting Geralt stand between them.

Jaskier leaned back on his right hand on the bed. Geralt leaned down, and Jaskier lifted his left one to Geralt’s neck, wrapping it over the witcher’s nape under his hair. Geralt’s mouth was scant inches from his. He brushed their mouths together, but Geralt forcefully captured his lips, licking into his mouth. He groaned with relish at the voraciousness. Pulled Geralt even closer to him. Their lips caught and released with more breath-robbing kisses.

After Geralt separated their gasping mouths, stood up and took several steps back, Jaskier was treated to the divine spectacle of Geralt stripping off all his clothes in the candlelight. The linen shirt flew off first, then the boots that Geralt kicked away, then the trousers. Jaskier stared with entranced eyes, his lips quivering with unadulterated longing and lust.

Every inch of Geralt was exquisite: from that long, flowing hair of white to those fierce amber eyes, that distinguished nose, those utterly kissable lips, that endearing dimple in that firm chin. Down a long neck sweeping into those broad shoulders, to that firm, hair-dusted chest that harbored such a remarkable heart and displayed that silver wolf medallion. Then to those ripples of muscles across Geralt’s abdomen, that trail of grey hair bisecting his flat lower belly, and then—

Jaskier’s mouth watered at the sight of Geralt’s rigid cock, at it being so close that he could grasp it if he just leaned forward and reached out for it. By the gods, to call it perfect was like calling Melitele a hideous wench. There were no words in Jaskier’s vocabulary, or in any other bard’s, that would not be sheer understatement of it. It protruded straight out from Geralt’s groin, with a gratifying upward curve and lovely-shaped head that Jaskier _knew_ would stimulate that sensitive, sweet spot inside him.

But more to the point, he was astonished into speechlessness that a cock of _that_ prodigious size had fitted in his arse and not split him open.

Did Geralt have magic fingers that loosened him just right for that fantastic cock?

With a pleased smirk, Geralt sauntered back to him, bringing that cock ever nearer to him. He sat up, and after a glance at Geralt’s face, at the consent to touch writ upon it, he reached up with both hands and reverently enclosed them around its thick length. A breathy moan escaped his mouth at the visual evidence that Geralt’s cock was so big, both his hands weren’t enough to cover it all. It felt fiery-hot. It throbbed with Geralt’s heartbeat. It was still slick with come and oil.

He stroked it from its thick base to its leaking head by alternating his hands. A low groan dragged its way out of Geralt, and Jaskier glanced up and smiled when Geralt caressed his hair and face with a less than steady hand.

“Lean back on your elbows,” Geralt growled.

It took Jaskier a minute to figure out what Geralt was planning, but when he did, he was leaning back on the bed on his elbows like Geralt ordered, grinning up at his witcher. His arse was perched on the edge of the bed. His upper body was supported by the bed. His bare thighs were still spread. If Geralt knelt on the floor between them, the witcher was at the ideal height to penetrate Jaskier, while giving Jaskier some freedom to move his hips and use his feet on the floor for leverage.

His beautiful, brave, devoted, _smart_ witcher.

Geralt walked out of Jaskier’s sight for a few seconds. He returned with the pillows that had been at the head of the bed, arranging them into a pile behind Jaskier and under his upper back. Jaskier’s grin softened into a doting smile. He grasped Geralt’s right hand and drew it to his lips to give it a kiss of thanks.

Geralt knelt between his spread legs. His tunic was bunched up around his hips, so Geralt was able to caress his thighs without cloth being in the way. Geralt’s warm hands skimmed up to his hips, to the creases between his hips and thighs—and then started pushing his tunic up over his belly.

With a gasp, Jaskier seized the hem of his tunic and shoved it back down to his groin, keeping his round belly covered.

It was as if he’d dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on Geralt, who flinched back.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt’s hands were back on his thighs, fingers spread and motionless. Geralt stared at him with wide, bewildered eyes. With— _hurt_.

Jaskier’s face heated up in an amalgam of embarrassment and shame at having caused that. He averted his face and lowered his eyes, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. His hand continued to hold his tunic down.

Geralt’s hands began to slide away from his thighs. Geralt was retreating from him.

“No!” He released his tunic and seized Geralt’s wrist, gazing into Geralt’s eyes that were now shuttered. “No, don’t you dare leave me.” He swallowed past a choking lump in his throat. “I want you. I _want_ you so much. You _know_ that I do.” He lowered his eyes again, but didn’t let go of Geralt’s wrist. “But—”

He felt Geralt’s eyes staring at his face.

“I—I’ve got—” He rolled his eyes at himself in frustration. “I haven’t seen them myself, but—they must be ugly.”

Geralt’s wrist was relaxed in his grasp. He felt Geralt’s hands on his thighs again, gently rubbing them.

“Jaskier, what are you talking about?”

Geralt didn’t sound angry with him. Geralt sounded confused, and concerned.

“The stretch marks,” he whispered. “On my belly.”

He could sense Geralt’s stare sharpening like a sword blade being whetted, and cutting through all his defenses in a single blow.

“Jaskier,” Geralt commanded with an austere tone. “Look at me.”

Jaskier swallowed past an even bigger lump in his throat. He let go of Geralt’s wrist. After a few tense seconds, he obeyed, glancing up at Geralt with what he knew were puppy eyes that could rival his witcher’s. Geralt let out a forbearing huff of air, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Look at my body. Look at my scars.” Geralt bent forward and set his hands on the bed on either side of Jaskier’s midriff, looming over him. His wolf medallion dangled down between them. “How many do you see?”

Jaskier’s eyes raked down Geralt’s nude body. A delectable, nude body with numerous scars, many of which were a mystery to Jaskier even now. Every single one of them were awe-inspiring to him.

He sputtered, then exclaimed, “They’re different from my—they’re just different!”

Geralt raised a grey eyebrow at him.

“How?”

“They’re— _sexy_ , aren’t they! You earned them fighting big beasties and bad people. You have heroic stories behind them!” Jaskier let out a ponderous sigh and rolled his eyes in self-deprecation. “My stretch marks are just—” He bit his lower lip hard. “I got them because I’m—fat.” He rolled his eyes again, muttering, “And yes, yes, I know, I’m pregnant, and our growing baby’s part of the reason I’m fat.”

Gods, Geralt’s glowering eyes should be registered as lethal weapons, the way they were skewering him without a blink.

“Do you not belong to me?” Geralt growled, never more wolf-like than in this moment. “All of you?”

Jaskier stared back helplessly, his face red-hot.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I belong to you, Geralt.”

“Then do I not have a say in what your stretch marks are to me?”

Jaskier was a paralyzed captive under Geralt’s vehement regard. He couldn’t sever their eye contact even if he wished to—and after what felt like an aeon, he found the strength to reach down for the hem of his tunic. To scrunch it in his wavering hand.

This was the first time Geralt was going to see his bare gravid belly. See it in a way that he himself had yet to see.

Geralt.

Geralt, his beloved witcher, who never stopped loving him. Who returned to him after riding out into the expansive world beyond the manor’s boundaries—because Geralt’s entire world was here, in the cradle of those sturdy arms, staring back with eyes as blue as the cloudless sky above the sea, while their baby grew and slept in a rotund belly he was being denied to behold.

Jaskier tugged his tunic over his belly, up to his chest.

He couldn’t rein in the shiver that made his belly tremble. He lowered his own eyes when Geralt did so to stare down at his exposed belly. He clenched his hand into a tighter fist around his rucked tunic, and sucked in a ragged breath.

Geralt didn’t move. Geralt said nothing.

When Jaskier couldn’t tolerate the suspense anymore, he glanced up at Geralt’s face. Geralt looked—immensely relieved. As if he’d expected to see something else instead of a smooth, swollen belly with stretch marks. Something horrifying from his remote past.

Something with a profusion of eyes and fangs everywhere, with blood-red skin.

“Oh no, no, darling,” Jaskier murmured, letting go of his tunic. He reached out to caress Geralt’s left arm, then that broad chest that expanded with a breath that snagged at its very end. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” He made a face that further drove away the unease in Geralt’s eyes. “If my belly went translucent, I think I’d be screaming my head off regardless of whatever is in it.” He made another face, one that caused Geralt’s eyes to crinkle. “Can you imagine being able to look at your own insides while you’re being fucked? Can’t decide whether that’s hot, or disgusting. Or both.”

Geralt lowered himself down until he was pressing his forehead to the apex of Jaskier’s belly, his forearms and hands resting on the bed on either side of Jaskier, his shoulders slumped. A gratified smile spread across Jaskier’s face as Geralt’s shoulders shook with soundless mirth. There he was again, his happy witcher, with no fears or troubles in him—

His thoughts skidded to a shocked halt at the sensation of Geralt’s tongue laving at the taut skin of his belly, just below his navel. His hands grabbed the back of Geralt’s head and shoulder as Geralt licked down to his lower belly like a smug cat. Geralt held the sides of his belly with both hands, and licked in a curved, outward direction, first to the left, then to the right. Then Geralt repeated the licking in a worshipful manner, those amber eyes shut, that handsome face slack in appreciation.

Jaskier was a gasping, shivering mess by the time Geralt was done honoring his stretch marks.

“I didn’t earn my scars, Jaskier.”

Geralt reared back onto his knees, caressing the sides and lower swell of Jaskier’s belly, tracing the stretch marks with his fingers. Jaskier’s hands fell back onto the bed.

“I have no choice but to live with them,” Geralt said, his eyes heavy-lidded with a pained gleam. “They’re marks of violence. They’re a reminder to me, and everyone who sees them, that I mete out violence and death. That it is all I’m good for.”

Jaskier shook his head, his lips working soundlessly.

“That’s not true,” he replied, still shaking his head. “They’re so much more than that. _You’re_ so much more than that, Geralt.”

That pained gleam withered away from Geralt’s eyes. In its place was that warmth that made the sun pale in comparison to it, that banished the chill of Geralt’s self-condemnation. Geralt leveled a pointed gaze at Jaskier.

“What do you think your stretch marks are to me? What all your scars are to me?” Geralt murmured. “They’re marks of love, Jaskier. They’re a reminder to me that you chose to offer up your own body to protect me. To save me.” Geralt caressed the swell of Jaskier’s bare belly from top to bottom, his whole face tender as he gazed down at it. “To carry my child, and bestow upon me a blessing that the world had deemed impossible for an unworthy witcher like me.”

Jaskier’s eyes welled hot and wet, but he didn’t blink while he stared up at Geralt. His lower lip quivered, and his throat prickled—and no, _no_ , he was having _none_ of that crying business when Geralt was _right there_ to be embraced and kissed and _loved_.

Jaskier pushed himself up to a semi-sitting position on the bed. He seized Geralt’s neck with his right hand and yanked him down for a devouring kiss. Geralt smiled into it, propping him up with one hand between his shoulder blades, propping himself up on the bed with the other. Fuck, he’d felt Geralt’s body pressed against his minutes ago, but already his lust was surging up once more from a simmer in his bones to a fiery explosion throughout his body, hardening his cock to exhilarated fullness.

He whined when Geralt broke their kiss and gently pushed him back onto the pile of pillows.

Then Geralt rolled his hips up against his arse, that tremendous cock as hard as ever, sliding in the wet crease between his buttocks. A promise of what was to come. He swallowed back a moan.

Then Geralt backed away—and bent down, and sucked him down to the hilt in earnest.

All thoughts lost, Jaskier grabbed a handful of Geralt’s hair, trying not to thrust up, not to strain his pregnant body. His other hand scrabbled at the sheets. A long groan fell from his lips. Oh, he could feel his cock hitting the back of Geralt’s throat. He shuddered from new heights of pleasure, so fucking ready to come from just _seconds_ of Geralt’s mouth on him, Geralt’s throat around him. Geralt was going at it as if he was famished after a hundred days of fasting, as if Jaskier was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted in his life.

“Oh, _oh!_ Oh gods—Geralt!”

Jaskier’s hand scrambled down from Geralt’s hair to a burly shoulder, his nails digging in and scratching flushed skin. With his toes planted on the floor, he managed to thrust up once, into that velvet, wet heat he’d never dreamed he would feel around his cock.

“Oh! Oh fuck—no, wait—” Jaskier scored Geralt’s shoulder with his nails, feeling his orgasm beginning to coil again at the base of his spine. “I don’t want to—please, _not yet!_ ”

Geralt eased back, and gradually, so did Jaskier, his breaths coming as swift as his witcher’s. Geralt suckled at the head of his cock so greedily, tracing the ridges with that fluid tongue. He felt those callused, large hands smooth over his trembling thighs, spreading his legs even wider. A shiver of renewed anticipation and excitement hurtled through him.

He carded his fingers with affectionate strokes through the fine, silky strands of Geralt’s hair in wordless apology for tugging it earlier. Geralt swirled his tongue over the slit at the head of his cock one last time, then pulled away with reluctance and a slick, wet noise. Jaskier’s moan at the loss was a bereft sound.

Geralt loomed over him again, bending down to kiss him, to lick into his slack mouth. Geralt’s lips were swollen, mouth salty with Jaskier’s musky scent.

“Geralt,” he murmured, after Geralt retreated to kneel between his spread legs again.

Geralt ran a thumb between his arsecheeks, tracing the still oiled, come-wet opening of his body. He could see the delight in Geralt’s crinkled eyes at the violent quiver of his body in reaction to the probing touch. There was a lingering soreness, but it was the best kind of soreness: the kind that Jaskier now knew could only be felt after superb sex with Geralt. When Geralt presented those thick fingers to him, he sucked as greedily on them as Geralt had sucked on his cock, wetting them with his spit.

Geralt rasping his name was his sole warning for what his witcher was about to do.

Geralt shoved two slick fingers halfway into him, and his mouth sagged open from the force of it, from the sudden rush of hot, burning pleasure. His body quaked around those unyielding fingers. Geralt spread his fingers apart, stretching Jaskier open for him again. It was a process that was both galvanizing and torturous: Geralt would thrust his fingers with a few deep strokes, then pull out, rubbing the sensitive stretch of skin between his hole and his drawn-up bollocks, then in again.

Jaskier was almost begging for Geralt’s cock by the time Geralt started to thrust his fingers in deeper with each pass. The needy, soft moans soon pouring out of Jaskier’s mouth were their own form of supplication to his cruel witcher. One moan strangled into a choked cry when Geralt’s nails scraped up his right arse cheek.

Then Geralt withdrew his fingers.

Geralt’s cock rubbed past his wet opening.

He whined with escalating need. Sucked in a frayed breath to center himself, and lifted his head. Geralt rubbed his left hand over Jaskier’s hip, then grabbed the handful of arse cheek he’d scratched, and squeezed. Jaskier pushed into it. His breaths were speeding up again, already, just from that—

“I love you, Jaskier.”

Geralt was bent over him once more, staring down at him with such heavy-lidded, warm eyes, caressing his hip. Thick tendrils of his white hair hung past his shoulders.

In another life, another world where Geralt of Rivia didn’t exist, Jaskier might have heeded that age-old warning to never trust someone who said those three words in the midst of sex. But Geralt wasn’t just anyone. Geralt was his monster-slaying champion, his best friend, his muse, the truest love of his life—and the other father of their little, sweet baby boy.

Geralt was there in the cradle of his legs, now holding his left hand to that flushed, handsome face, armorless and weaponless. Saying those words again into his skin, oblivious to just how much devastating power he had over Jaskier with them.

“I love you so much, you magnificent brute,” Jaskier rasped in return, stroking Geralt’s cheek with his fingers. “Now fuck me and fill me up.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and gave his rotund belly a pointed glance.

“I already did.”

Jaskier would have chuckled if he had air in his lungs to do it. But he didn’t, and he was so empty, _aching_ so much for Geralt to be inside him. Geralt let go of his hand and knelt back between his thighs, gripped his hips. He almost cried in relief when he felt the blunt press of Geralt’s cock pushing against his opening at last. He wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist as best he could, drawing his witcher in.

“Oh,” Jaskier moaned, swallowing hard as Geralt’s cock head split him open. “Oh, _oh fuck_ , Geralt.”

In a single, strong flex of his hips, Geralt buried himself to the hilt in Jaskier’s welcoming body. Jaskier threw his head back on the pillows with a shattered moan. His folded legs shook around Geralt’s waist. After a harsh gasp, he wriggled his hips to find the right angle and—oh, _oh_ , fuck, _there_ it was.

Geralt drew back slowly each time, then plowed in hard and fast. Geralt’s hands were vices around Jaskier’s hips. He felt as if he was being stuffed with that fantastic cock up to his throat. He gloried in being taken and filled up by Geralt this way. He was hard, so hard, and every thrust had Geralt’s belly kneading his cock against his own belly.

Oh yes, here was the ecstasy of soaring out of his own mind, of becoming the consummate vessel of emotions and sensations. It engulfed him. Had him panting like some sort of novel, wild creature, each breath ending in a weak, high-pitched whine. Had him grabbing at the pillows behind and under his ravaged body and tossing his head.

He was going mad with lust. His heart raced as if it was trying to burst free of his chest like an exuberant lark. His entire body was an arc of tantalizing bliss from the crown of his head to the tips of his curled-in toes.

His breaths were becoming so shallow that he thought he might actually pass out before he came. It could be tears he felt rolling down his temples into his sweat-matted hair, but he wasn’t sure, when all he could focus on were the overwhelming sensations of Geralt moving inside him and the scorching points where Geralt restrained him.

“Tell me again, Geralt,” he gasped, intoxicated and ravished.

“I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt growled. “I love you. Only you.”

Despite Geralt’s tight grip on him, Jaskier did his best to swivel his hips and grind himself on Geralt’s thrusting cock. Every inward thrust left him vibrating from the core outwards. It felt so huge inside him—he still couldn’t believe that he could take it all like this, but he was, _he was_.

He was, after all, destined and made for Geralt.

Geralt was staring at him as if he was some sort of exquisite wonder, lips parted, eyes fervid and wide. Jaskier felt a thrill of seductive power at reducing Geralt to this devout state. He writhed when Geralt pushed his tunic up to his collarbones and exposed his heaving, smooth chest. Cried out when Geralt rubbed and pinched one of his acutely sensitive nipples.

“After our son is born,” Geralt pledged, grinding into Jaskier’s arse, “I’m going to fuck you for hours. Fuck you against the wall. On the floor. In the tub. And you’ll come with my cock in your arse, never once touching yourself.”

Jaskier cried out weakly, “Please, Geralt.”

He almost wished he wasn’t about to come, so they could keep doing this for hours. His legs quivered from their wide stretch to accommodate Geralt’s muscular, solid body, from the strain of overextended pleasure. Geralt caressed his chest over and over, rubbing those broad palms over his tingling nipples, and in retaliation, he clenched his inner muscles, basking in the fractured groan it earned him from Geralt. He pressed his heels to Geralt’s flexing arse, urging his witcher on with a fresh litany of moans.

“Yes, Geralt—fuck me, please— _oh!_ Oh fuck, yeah, _harder_ —”

Geralt arched over him, surrounding him in the cage of those sinewy, straightened arms. He lost himself in the searing sensations of Geralt’s skin upon his skin, brushing and sliding and bearing down. He could tell Geralt was also close: the way his arms tensed, the coarse breaths through his nose timed to the sharp smacks of his skin against Jaskier’s. Geralt’s hair stuck to the sides of his face, his eyes sun-bright and wild, his cheeks flushed.

Jaskier squeezed hard around Geralt’s cock again, ruthless. The sound Geralt made this time was filthy, a long, feverish groan that rumbled through Jaskier’s body, through the sultry places they touched.

“Fuck, Geralt,” he gasped. “You’re so good—so good to me—” He reached for Geralt’s face with a shaking hand, cupping his cheek. “Gods, I love you. _I love you, all of you_.”

Geralt wrapped a hand around Jaskier’s cock, and it didn’t take a full stroke to make him come. His orgasm this time was an even mightier storm that battered and drowned him in more waves of pleasure. It ripped a cry of elation right out of his lungs. Geralt’s grip was slick and tight, pumping him through each convulsion. Hot, thick stripes of come spattered his rotund belly.

Geralt fucked him through it—and kept on fucking him after, making every breath leave him as a breathless gasp, his head thrown back on the pillows. His body thrummed as Geralt slammed into him. He found a smidgen of energy to rock down hard on Geralt’s cock, taking him deep once more with the desperation to see his darling witcher come.

“Geralt,” he said, as tremulous as the rest of him. “Come for me, my white wolf. _Breed me_.”

And Geralt did, with a brutal snap of hips, arching his back. He released an agonized groan, sounding as if his orgasm was wrenched from his very marrow. His hips jerked twice, then stalled deep inside of Jaskier, who stared up in veneration with bright, wide eyes and quivering, smiling lips. He memorized every second of the beatific vision of Geralt coming inside him, so he could recall it again and again in the imminent days when he and Geralt had to be apart, while he waited for his witcher to return to him again.

He could feel the smarting of bruises Geralt had left all along his hips.

They were going to admire those bruises for days to come, reminiscing how Jaskier received them.

Thoroughly spent, Jaskier dragged in one ragged breath after another into his lungs. He luxuriated in the slowly softening length of Geralt’s cock inside him. He tightened his internal muscles again, smiling when Geralt dipped his head and let out an almost inaudible whimper. Their satiated bodies seemed to hum together, like a flawless, harmonious song.

He let out a saddened whine when Geralt pulled out of him, but he sprawled on the pillows and the bed, his neck arched and bared, his eyes shut, a sated grin unfurling across his flushed, slack face. He felt Geralt climb onto the bed to lie beside him. Felt Geralt’s hand rubbing the swell of his belly, and Geralt’s lips kissing his cheek, the line of his jaw, the column of his neck. Then Geralt laughed softly into the sweaty, warm flesh of the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

“So.” Jaskier drew in a deeper, longer breath, then turned his head to nuzzle Geralt’s hair. “When can we do that again?”

Geralt laughed again, and Jaskier felt his cheek bunch up in a grin against his skin.

“Bloody insatiable,” Geralt growled, planting another kiss on his neck, over his calming pulse.

Jaskier stretched his sore legs that hung over the edge of the bed. His arse was even more sore now, but _gods_ , it was absolutely worth it, just to feel so much of Geralt’s come trickling out of him. He wished he could contain it all inside him—but, well, he could always demand that Geralt fill him up again until all the empty spaces in him were gone. Again, and again, and _again_ , for the rest of their lives.

“Twenty years, Geralt, my curmudgeonly darling,” he drawled, pulling his fingers through Geralt’s hair that he could reach. “We have a _lot_ of catching up to do.”

Geralt rose up onto an elbow to gaze down at him with crinkled, fully satisfied eyes that made his heart inflate with adoration and pride. He did that. _He_ was the one who gave Geralt such satisfaction, such contentment.

“You have to rest,” Geralt murmured.

Jaskier moaned into the tender kiss Geralt pressed onto his pliant lips.

“But right now?” Geralt reared back to look him in the eyes with twinkling ones. “I want to bathe you.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened and stayed that way. Geralt’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Jaskier’s lips stretched into an ebullient smile, and he nodded so much that Geralt erupted into an amused chortle at his silliness. He wrapped both arms around Geralt’s neck. Tugged him down for another kiss, and another, and another.

“Yes,” Jaskier rasped into Geralt’s curved lips. “Cleanse me of everything but you.”

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Jaskier groaned as Geralt’s hands kneaded the sore muscles of his neck and shoulders. He bowed his head, lolling in the copper bathtub that brimmed with hot water.

“Oh gods, that’s good.” He tilted his head back, groaning again when Geralt dug his thumb into a tense knot above his right shoulder blade. “Better than sex.”

Geralt was sitting nude behind him on a wooden stool, but he didn’t need to glance back to know Geralt was raising his eyebrows in amusement. He leaned back against the bathtub, then tilted his head back until the wet crown of it pressed on Geralt’s bare belly. He gazed up with a smirk and a wink.

“Better than sex with anyone but you,” he drawled, and Geralt’s lips quirked up in a smug smile, amber eyes twinkling.

“Hmmn.”

Jaskier translated that as, _you are so fortunate that I love you so much, you little shit_.

He was fortunate. He really was, to be loved as he was by the truest love of his life.

Geralt pushed his head up and forward to resume massaging him. Geralt had helped him into the bathtub after stripping off his tunic, gripping his flanks until he’d swung his legs over the rim, then watched with vigilant eyes until he was sitting safely inside. Slipping while getting in or out of the bathtub had been one of his other anxieties about potentially hurting their baby.

Now that he and Geralt were intimate lovers, that was one less worry to beleaguer him.

“I’m so used to seeing you with chest hair,” Geralt murmured, massaging his upper back with his palms in short, circular strokes. “What happened to all your body hair?”

Jaskier pressed a hand to the center of his smooth chest. He leaned into Geralt’s assertive hands, letting out a low, approving moan. Whoever had taught Geralt these wonderful massage methods deserved a reward in bags of gold.

“All of it fell off me right here in this tub. Just like that! I screamed my head off, and—” A snort of laughter burst from his pursed lips. “Yennefer stormed in all mad sorceress-like, thinking someone was attacking me.” He shook his head. “I haven’t had to shave my face for months, too. It’s—odd. But convenient.”

Geralt was now using his knuckles and thumbs to do something _magical_ to his aching lower back. It robbed his mind and tongue of all words for several minutes. He let his eyes flutter shut, and he moaned again, feeling like he was floating in a cocoon of warmth.

“It’ll probably grow back after our baby is born.”

Jaskier smiled softly. No matter how many times Geralt referred to their baby as _theirs_ , the glow of happiness he felt about it was always new.

“Probably,” he murmured, eyes still shut. He rubbed his bulging belly with both hands under the water. “Or perhaps this is my permanent state from now on. Unless that _oak tree_ decides to change me back.”

Geralt’s hands slid up his back to his shoulders. They gently tugged him back until he was leaning against the bathtub again, and he turned his head to press his cheek to Geralt’s when Geralt bent down to hug him with both arms above the water. He opened his eyes to slits.

“Yennefer still hasn’t found it,” Geralt said. “If it’s as powerful as she believes it is, it could have her running circles around it for decades. Or—”

Geralt trailed into a loaded silence. Jaskier caressed the hirsute, sinewy lengths of Geralt’s forearms with his fingers. He delighted in the stark contrast of textures of his smooth arms to his witcher’s hairy ones.

“Or, my encounter with it was a one-off situation, and it may never reveal itself again.” Geralt inhaled through his nose, then exhaled out his mouth. “Unless—it wants—”

Geralt trailed into another loaded bout of silence. Jaskier’s fingers went motionless.

“Our baby,” Jaskier mumbled.

Geralt tightened his embrace.

“Whatever motive it had, I swear to you that I won’t let it take our son. I am grateful to it for what it has given to me—but I—” He clenched his right hand into a fist against Jaskier’s upper arm where it rested. “I’ll stop it if that’s its price. I’ll do what I have to.”

Jaskier grasped Geralt’s wrist and stroked his forearm with a thumb. He swallowed hard down a constricted throat.

“I told Yennefer the same thing,” he whispered. “Told her I’d cut its fucking heart out if it even tried.”

Geralt turned his head to nuzzle his neck, a gratified growl rumbling through that broad, hair-dusted chest.

“Good,” Geralt said into his persistent pulse. “I expect nothing less from the White Wolf’s mate.”

His throat eased opened. He drew in a stable breath, and smiled with his eyes shut once more, leaning his head against his beloved witcher’s white-haired one. Yes, he was indeed Geralt’s mate in every sense of the word: companion, confidant, friend, lover, partner. His other half.

Oh yes, he could compose at least twenty songs about the White Wolf’s love for his new-found mate by the end of the month—well, all right, perhaps _after_ he and Geralt had caught up with at least _some_ of the lovemaking they should have been enjoying for the past twenty years. Practice was so very important to improving one’s skills and techniques. Not that Geralt required much improvement in the art of fucking him into a moaning, writhing mess painted with come.

They said nothing more to each other until Geralt had washed his body with a fancy, scented soap, and poured pails of water multiple times over his head, and then helped him out of the bathtub. Geralt enfolded him in a woolly towel. Dried him with care from head to toes, gently patting his belly with the towel.

Jaskier couldn’t count the number of times he fell in love with Geralt all over again during this bath alone.

“What about you?”

He touched Geralt’s belly after Geralt stood up and wrapped the towel tight around his shoulders and torso again.

“I’m fine. A quick wipe will do.” Geralt curbed a smile at Jaskier’s puppy-eyed pout. “You can wash my hair tomorrow.” Geralt kissed him on the cheek, then said, “Go to bed.”

As if on cue, a yawn stretched his mouth open and scrunched his eyes shut. Geralt kissed him again, then turned him around in the direction of the bedroom. He shuffled out of the bathroom, then across the room to the left side of the bed, knowing Geralt usually chose the right side—and in this room, the right side was closer to the door. The overprotective oaf would insist on taking it even if Jaskier picked it, so he could put himself between Jaskier and any danger that foolishly dared to creep their way.

Yes, he absolutely had a disgusting, lovesick smile on at that mere thought, and he didn’t give a damn.

With a sigh, he dropped the towel on the floor and carefully sat on the side of the bed. Getting into bed was as onerous as getting out it. Geralt had already rearranged the pillows against the headboard, but he dawdled, glancing down at right hip and pressing his fingertips to the round, small bruises on it. He pressed on one until it twinged, and he bit his lower lip, his toes curling in on the floor while he recalled the visceral sensations of Geralt’s cock thrusting in and out of him.

He already missed the feeling of Geralt’s come splashing his insides.

And in just a matter of hours, he was going to experience it again.

His lips arched in a blissful smile.

Heavy, slow treads from the bathroom wrested Jaskier from his luscious reverie, and he raised his head to see something a thousand times more luscious: Geralt’s lovely bottom, while its handsome possessor unselfconsciously sauntered around the room to blow out the candles. His warm chest heaved in a long, infatuated sigh. Oh, there his brain went, composing yet another rousing song about those flexing posterior muscles, and how they would glisten in the light after a nice, _deep_ massage with chamomile oil, and _oh_ , yes, how they would _clench_ and _ripple_ while Geralt plunged that tremendous cock into his willing arse—

“Jaskier, you’re drooling.”

Geralt’s hair was untied, parted in the middle. Geralt’s eyes were outwardly glowering, but his lips tremored with mirth.

Jaskier sucked in his wet lips, very reluctantly tore his eyes away from that lovely bottom, and said with wide, innocent eyes, “Can you blame me?”

Geralt stopped fighting his amused smile and shook his head as he sauntered to the foot of the bed in the moonlight streaming through the windows. He climbed onto the bed with the physical grace of a giant wolf in its prime, his muscles bulging and contracting while he crawled to where Jaskier sat. Jaskier used his hands on the bed and his feet on the floor to push himself farther up the bed, but Geralt was having none of that whatsoever, using those impressive arms behind his upper back and under his thighs to transfer him closer to the head of the bed.

He could have made a fuss about being treated like fragile porcelain—but who was he to complain about feeling Geralt’s arms around him once more? Geralt being able to carry him with such ease and sensitivity was just more proof of Geralt’s worthiness as a mate. _His_ mate.

He sat with his back facing the headboard while Geralt spread the fleece blankets over them. He’d shared a bed with Geralt so many times in the last two decades, but tonight was the first time they would sleep in one as lovers. They weren’t the same men who’d departed from Gulet months ago. Nor were they the same men who’d parted mere days ago near the manor’s stables.

So much had changed forever for them tonight.

So what was going to happen to their unspoken rule of a hand’s breadth of space between them whenever they shared a bed?

Jaskier pressed a kiss to an old scar on Geralt’s chest, after the witcher sat next to him and drew the blankets up to their sternums. Geralt brushed his smooth cheek with the side of a forefinger, gazing at him with that tiny smile and those warm eyes.

With one hand cupping his belly, Jaskier cautiously turned and then lowered himself down on his left side on the bed, his back facing Geralt. He folded his arms to his chest. Snuggled his head into the feather-stuffed pillow. Sighed into its cool fabric.

He waited.

He could sense Geralt still sitting up, staring at the back of his head, at his back. He stared into the shadows. He breathed.

Then, as if approaching a skittish deer, Geralt shifted nearer to him, crossing that narrow space between them in charged silence. Geralt lied down behind him. Pulled up the fleece blankets to their shoulders. Slid a meaty left arm under his pillow. Pressed that gorgeous body skin to skin with his, from head to toes, nuzzling that so very alluring face into his hair and neck, tucking that fantastic cock between his arse cheeks, twining their legs under the blankets.

He sucked in a short, tattered breath when Geralt’s right arm clasped him.

He was surrounded by Geralt, utterly safe and sound in the shelter that was his witcher. That had always been there for him. That would always be there for him, and their little, sweet baby boy they loved so much.

“Is this all right, my love?”

For what must have felt like a nerve-racking century to Geralt, Jaskier couldn’t answer the murmured question. He blinked a few times. Swallowed down a small lump. Drew in another tattered breath at the tender caresses of Geralt’s hand on his belly, over their slumbering baby.

_No, this isn’t all right._

_This is everything._

“Yes,” Jaskier whispered.

He reached under the blankets for Geralt’s hand. He tugged it up to his chest and weaved their fingers. Geralt gave his hand a squeeze, gave that frail spot behind his ear a kiss.

When Jaskier closed his eyes, he dreamed of the sea under a cloudless sky. He saw its frothing, rolling waves greet the sand that was its old friend. He glanced over his shoulder and saw three pairs of footprints in the wet sand trailing behind him from the coast. Two of those pairs of footprints were much larger than the pair between them. That pair was so tiny that each foot could fit in his palm.

He glanced to his left, and he saw Geralt an arm’s breadth away, barefoot, grasping a tiny, chubby hand in his callused, large one. Geralt’s long, white hair billowed in the salty breeze. Geralt was smiling down at the toddler between them, speaking to him with quiet affection.

He was also grasping a tiny, chubby hand in his callused one. He squeezed it, and the white-haired toddler glanced up at him with large, blue eyes that sparkled gold under the sunshine. He said something to the toddler—his little, sweet boy, the best of him and Geralt—but he couldn’t hear his own words over the crashing of the waves. But that was all right. His son smiled up at him, and with the sheer love he felt from that one smile, he could brave all the monsters on the Continent, and win.

It was a beautiful dream.

Just a dream, tonight.

But it was also a dream that would one day be so much more. His heart was certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next update: Moar talking! Moar Geraskier feels! And the two idiots madly in love find out what that wacky oak tree is--and its price for making Geralt's wish come true. _Dun dun dun duuuun_.
> 
> Two more updates to go! We're heading towards the finishing line for the main story ...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain had a sad at the realization that this is the penultimate update for this story, so it decided to pile on 4000+ words of Geraskier banter and feels on top of the banter and feels already plotted out. There are so much feels that even I got the feels at certain points. 
> 
> I cannot thank you all enough for your kind comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions. ❤️💙 I'm so glad you're enjoying the story! Yes, feel free to add the story to your collections, and if you're linking to it outside of AO3, I'd love to know where. 
> 
> Let's kick off this mega-wave of Geraskier feels with one of my favorite moments from the show, and quite relevant to this update:  
> 

In the morning, Geralt couldn’t stop laughing at Jaskier for wanting to have more sex despite being unable to move a muscle. Yes, he was sore from the tips of his hair to the tips of his toes, particularly in the arse, but it was a _good_ sort of sore. The sort of sore that demanded more soreness via giant witcher cock in his arse _now!_

“Jaskier, you can’t even lift an arm off the bed.”

Geralt’s idea of laughing at him was more a pursing of tremoring lips than outright guffaws and sitting calmly on the side of the bed next to his knees. But he knew his witcher was _laughing_ , and he didn’t think twice about hurling a pillow at that crinkled, stupidly attractive face.

Of course, Geralt caught it with one hand before it landed.

“How dare you mock me,” Jaskier grumbled, still lying on his left side, his arm flopping back onto the bed. “I am a tempest of outrage. I am a hailstorm of retribution. I will get what I want, and you will get back into bed and fuck me silly right now, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt chucked the pillow onto the bed behind Jaskier, shaking his head with fondness.

“Come on, it’s time for breakfast.”

Jaskier huddled under the fleece blankets and pouted, his cheek squished on the pillow.

“It’s time to fuck,” he whined.

“Breakfast.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“ _Breakfast_ , you brat.” Geralt glowered at him with twinkling eyes. “I will leave you here alone to starve and go downstairs by myself.”

Jaskier sniffed and muttered, “No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I would.”

“No, you won’t.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, I would.”

“No, you won’t, you love me too much, and anyway, I would just yell your name over and over, and then Yennefer would yell at me to shut up, and then she’d make you come back upstairs to shut me up when I refuse to listen to her, _so there_.”

Geralt released a heavy, forbearing sigh. His lips tremored hard, then flattened into a thin line that didn’t fool Jaskier one bit. Geralt stood up in all his glorious nudity and ambled from the bed, eliciting a besotted sigh from Jaskier who smiled and stared at that lovely bottom flexing its way to the bathroom. What a hypnotizing vision it was to behold.

He shut his eyes after Geralt was out of sight—and was gently shaken awake some time later by one large hand on his relaxed upper arm. Oh, Geralt was dressed in a white linen shirt and a different pair of dark brown trousers. He must have gone to his bedroom to retrieve a change of clothes.

No, wait: his _former_ bedroom.

Jaskier’s bedroom was now Geralt’s too. It was _their_ bedroom, just like the wriggling baby in his belly was _their_ baby.

“Come on, Jaskier. Get up.”

He concealed his joyous smile in his pillow.

“Don’t want to.”

To his delight, he felt Geralt’s fingers card through his disheveled hair and tug it in warning.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt growled. “Don’t make me haul you up like a puppy.”

Jaskier’s concealed smile expanded. He turned his head and peeked up at his witcher with one eye.

“What if I like that, hm?”

Geralt’s lips twitched. Geralt released his hair—then flipped away the blankets from his naked body, exposing it to the cool morning air. He let out a high-pitched, petulant whine that would surely elect him king of all tantrum-throwing, two-year-old brats. He grabbed the pillow under his head and lobbed it at Geralt’s head.

He knew Geralt had phenomenal reflexes: he’d once witnessed Geralt annihilate a terrorizing gang of robbers in a Redanian village with nothing but a steel rod, moving so swiftly that he became an avenging blur of white and black and silver. He’d witnessed Geralt swipe a fired arrow away from him with his sword. Witnessed Geralt sprinting down a wooden bridge that was disintegrating under his feet, and vaulting over the low gate at its end as if he was taking a stroll in a garden.

So to witness the pillow slamming into that stupidly attractive face, and then see the exaggerated deadpan expression on it after the pillow plummeted to the floor?

It cracked him up into gleeful guffaws that sent him sprawling on the bed again, warmed all over with affection and mirth. Geralt stood at the side of the bed with arms akimbo. Glowered at him with those crinkled, twinkling eyes.

When he had the breath to speak again, he rolled his eyes in good humor and made grabby hands at Geralt.

“Assist me, my strapping myrmidon!”

After a few more seconds of that adorable glower, Geralt deigned to help him sit up on the bed, then to stand up. Gods, it was _so_ much easier to do that with someone’s assistance, especially when said someone was a robust man like Geralt with those brawny arms that could fling a full-grown man across a tavern.

Geralt also helped him to wear a puffy-sleeved, sapphire blue tunic with embroidered, golden flowers all over it, that he’d left draped on the back of the chair in front of his writing desk. Geralt had retrieved his leather shoes from the living room as well at some point, and gripped his forearms while he slipped his feet into them.

“All right.” He glanced up at Geralt with an innocuous smile. “Now can we go back to bed and fuck?”

Geralt gazed back with that exaggerated deadpan face, still gripping his forearms.

“I’m going to eat all the honey cakes, and leave none for you.”

Jaskier gasped and reared back, his mouth gaping.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would.”

“ _You wouldn’t_.”

“I would. For the rest of the week, I’ll eat them all before you get your hands on them, if you don’t go downstairs for breakfast.”

Jaskier’s mouth worked through a variety of soundless shapes.

“ _You_ —” He jabbed a forefinger on Geralt’s rock-hard chest. “Need a time out!”

Geralt’s eyebrows slowly climbed up a high forehead in a very, _very_ salient point that Jaskier was not going to acknowledge about his not-at-all childish behavior. He grasped the sides of Geralt’s head with both hands and drew it down to kiss away whatever reprimand there was on Geralt’s lips.

He was _not_ going to acknowledge either the victorious smirk on his witcher’s honey cake-snaffling, _stupid_ face that lingered there all the way to the dining room.

“Good morning, Geralt, Jaskier!”

Ciri was already seated at the long table, with a heaping plate of breakfast in front of her. Yennefer sat at the head of the table, appearing much more cognizant of her environment this morning than she had been the last time Jaskier saw her.

“Good morning, poppet,” Jaskier said, going up to Ciri and giving her a peck on the crown of her head. She beamed up at him, and at Geralt when the witcher petted her head without hesitation.

Geralt chose the seat to Yennefer’s right, facing Ciri. He pulled out the chair to his right for Jaskier. As Jaskier settled down, and Geralt stroked the side of his neck above his tunic’s high collar, the sorceress gave him a meaningful smirk that was even more vexing than Geralt’s.

He rolled his eyes at her and exclaimed, flinging up his hands, “ _Yes_ , Yennefer, we did it last night! _Twice!_ Are you happy?”

Ciri frowned at him and asked, “Did what?”

“Nothing,” Geralt said, glowering at him. “We did nothing last night.”

Unfortunately for the century-old witcher who hadn’t learned a thing about children, all his hasty response did was pique the young princess’ curiosity. Her emerald eyes went round and sparked like fire.

The servants scurrying in with more plates of food and utensils only delayed the unavoidable resumption of Ciri’s interrogation. She was learning the art of being a masterful questioner, with that disarming smile.

“Jaskier, what did you and Geralt do last night?”

Yennefer bit into a piece of buttered toast and stared at him with wide, twinkling eyes. Geralt refused to look at anyone, shoveling buttered bread and eggs into his gob as if the world was ending and the sole way to save it was to wolf down everything on his plate.

“Well, Ciri.” Jaskier cleared his throat, then rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “You see, when two people love each other very much, they go into a room and—”

Geralt’s head snapped up. With a mouth so full his cheeks bulged, he growled, “They have private _conversations_ about private things, and _nothing more_.”

Jaskier pressed the fingers of both his hands over his mouth, muffling his giggles in the nick of time. His shoulders shook with restrained mirth. Yennefer sneered at Geralt, her nose wrinkling. Geralt glowered at her with narrowed eyes.

Jaskier lowered his hands and stage-whispered to Geralt, “Is _that_ what we’re calling it now? _Private conversations?_ ” He slapped a hand over his mouth again when another giggle threatened to erupt. “Private conversations involving _private parts_ , perhaps.”

Geralt squinted at him. With those bulging cheeks, Geralt looked like a peeved squirrel whose nuts were rubbed the wrong way—and oh, here came those giggles again, muffled as they were behind his hand. Geralt rolled his eyes at everyone and resumed eating, looking pained when Ciri said in all innocence, “You must have had a lot to say to each other, that two long conversations on the same night were necessary.”

Jaskier tamped down his mirth long enough to say with a straight face, “Oh yes, Geralt and I had many, _many_ things to say to each other last night. He was very—assertive. Very— _forceful_ in his—thrusting.” He paused dramatically, then added, his lips tremoring, “Of his thoughts!”

Ciri blinked at him.

“Oh. That’s good.” Ciri glanced at Geralt, and said to Jaskier, “He did say he needed to learn to use his words with you. To practice.”

Yennefer burst into an entertained cackle, wallowing in Geralt’s flushed face and overt discomfiture that he tried to hide by lowering his head as much as possible to his plate of dwindling food. Her laughter prompted Jaskier to crack up again. He could feel his cheeks heating up, for more reasons than one: he wasn’t the only person at the table who _knew_ what sex with Geralt felt like.

The gods decided to be merciful to Geralt, for Ciri shook her head at them and returned to her breakfast, probably mulling over the inexplicable eccentricity of adults and their inexplicable, private conversations.

Under the table, Jaskier rested his hand on Geralt’s right thigh, and gave it a squeeze. Although Geralt didn’t look up from his plate, Jaskier felt a knee press to his. He smiled to himself. Yes, his darling witcher always did communicate better with his actions than words, and probably always would. He was utterly fine with that.

At the end of the meal, Yennefer was the first to leave the table. When she stood up, her tight-fitting dress flaunted her curvaceous silhouette at the waist and hips, and it glimmered in the light where its golden silk was garnished with silver.

“Well, then. All work and no play will lead me astray,” she said, sweeping her hands down flowing pleats, “I’m going back to my orgy.”

Evil woman that she was, she chose to declare that while Jaskier was gulping down a mouthful of pomegranate juice. He choked on it, torn between spitting it out and swallowing it before his body chose the latter for him, and then he was coughing, one hand pressed to his chest. Geralt gently smacked his upper back while glaring at a completely unrepentant Yennefer.

She brushed her hand down Ciri’s long hair as she strode past the little princess to the exit with a wicked smirk. Ciri had that frown of innocent curiosity again.

“Geralt,” Ciri said. “What’s an orgy?”

Jaskier choked on his own saliva and was afflicted by a second bout of coughing. Geralt continued to smack him on the back: a ham-fisted attempt at evading the question. Jaskier spared his witcher the torture of answering it. Once he caught his breath, he wagged a forefinger at her.

“An orgy is a party that _you_ most certainly cannot attend!” He made a face, then pressed the pads of his fingers to his pursed lips, squinting and reconsidering his reply. “Well, at least for another three or four years.”

Geralt glowered at him. He glanced at Geralt, sputtered, and said, “Six years!”

Geralt let out a low rumble of a growl.

“ _Nine_ years!”

Geralt narrowed those large, amber eyes at him. Jaskier rolled his own eyes, shifted on his seat to partially face Geralt.

“Geralt, my grouchy beauty, my cantankerous muse, an orgy may actually be a _positive life experience_ for her one day—”

Geralt glowered at Ciri and growled, “No orgies for princesses!”

Ciri pouted at him, her lower lip poking out, her pale eyebrows lowered in a frown of disappointment.

“Why not? Why can’t princesses go to an orgy?”

Geralt drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth. He shut it, then opened it once more. After a few seconds of strained silence, he shut it again, his face scrunching into an exasperated expression. Jaskier had to bite his lower lip hard to not chortle at the beseeching, puppy-eyed look Geralt gave him.

“What’s an orgy?!”

Jaskier shifted on his seat to face Ciri, then replied while waving his hands about in emphasis, “Well, an _orgy_ is a gathering of people with certain, uhm, _predilections_ who, uh, participate in said predilections together, and have lots of fun while they’re at it! Sometimes for days on end!” He capped his answer off with a tilt of his head and a wide grin.

Ciri blinked at him, then at Geralt.

“ _That’s_ all it is? A group of people having fun together?” She made a face, wrinkling her nose so much like Yennefer did. “I don’t see what’s so bad about that.”

Jaskier had to press his hand over his tremoring lips yet again when Ciri resumed eating the last portion of her breakfast and Geralt’s shoulders sagged with a heavy, noiseless sigh of relief. Geralt picked up his tankard of ale from the table and took a big swig of it.

“Anyway,” Ciri said, stabbing her fork into the last slice of sausage on her plate, “Yennefer said she’s going to throw me an orgy for my next birthday. So I’ll find out what it is then.”

The ale Geralt had gulped sprayed out of his mouth all over the table like fire exploding from a dragon’s maw. Ciri sprang back in her seat and shrieked. Jaskier guffawed like a loon until he was red-faced, slapping his hand on the table. Even his baby boy in his belly seem to wriggle in empathetic glee.

Oh, and he got the last slice of honey cake, too.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Jaskier’s favorite ornamental garden of the manor was in a semi-fenced, hexagonal area near the stables. It had a lily pond teeming with fish and frogs, manicured gradations of bright red poppies and lemon-yellow buttercups, as well as lilac bushes and trees in full bloom scattered among leafy ash trees and a solitary willow tree. A stone path meandered through the flourishing garden, and it was easy to lose oneself in the serenity while strolling the path.

Well, easy for anyone except Geralt, it seemed.

“Oh, stop your prickly scowling,” Jaskier drawled, giving Geralt’s right arm that he grasped with both hands a good shake. “Yennefer obviously didn’t tell her what an orgy _really_ is.”

Geralt let out an irked grunt. His seething scowl clashed so much with the placidity of their environment and their languorous stroll that Jaskier had to press his face into the sleeve of Geralt’s linen shirt to bury his amused smile there.

“May I remind you that you _met_ Yennefer at an orgy of her own making,” he said after he raised his head. “And I’m sure you don’t regret that.”

Geralt let out another grunt, although it was a more benign one, scowl cooling off into a mild frown. Geralt was resting a hand over his on a bulging bicep, stroking the back of his fingers with a thumb. They were passing under the profuse branches of an ash tree. Morning sunshine filtered through their breeze-blown leaves, casting shadows that flickered across Geralt’s face like the fluttering wings of frisky fairies.

“Well, _I_ don’t regret it, considering she’s the reason I’m not dead from an enormous tumor in my throat.” Jaskier made a face, then said, “Have you noticed that everything fascinating that happens to you, happens because of me?”

Geralt glanced at him with a raised eyebrow and a wry arch to his lips, and asked, “Is that a hint for me to do something about that?”

Jaskier nodded sagely. With a head held high, he replied, “Yes, for starters, you can embrace me and tell me I mean the whole world to you. Then you can get me all the honey cakes I want, and—”

Geralt swiveled to face him and snared him in those magnificent, muscular arms. He chuckled into the open-mouthed kiss Geralt planted on him, put up a pretense of trying to escape from Geralt’s clasp, savoring its unbreakable strength around him. He gave up after a minute. He wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. Moaned softly into Geralt’s curving, supple lips—and never felt happier than he did in this very moment in time.

He could almost believe that somewhere out there, a god that was still merciful, still vigilant for pleas from a splintered heart, had heard him.

“Two small slices of honey cake a week from now on,” Geralt said, once they were strolling the path side by side again, an arm around Jaskier’s lower back and a hand grasping Jaskier’s hip. At Jaskier’s outraged gasp, he added, “Too much sugar is bad for you.”

Jaskier stuck out his lower lip. “Says who?”

“Healers. I’ve heard them say that sugar can accumulate in the blood, and kill a person slowly.”

Jaskier blinked, then pressed a hand to his rotund belly. Their baby was sleeping more and more these days. He rubbed the swell of it from top to bottom, and he could feel the curve of their baby’s back under his palm.

“Oh,” he murmured. He made a face, then said flippantly, “Eh, I don’t really go in for that sort of death. Give me a swift, painless one instead.”

Geralt shot a brief glower at him, but also hugged him closer. He was tempted to add another flippant comment about dying, about his inner light best to snuff out while he was still young and beautiful, but he wasn’t that cruel, and it would be a total lie. He didn’t want to die young. He wanted to grow old with Geralt, to see their baby boy become a man.

He wanted to live, now that he felt alive like he never had before.

They strolled on until they reached the pond and the solitary willow tree whose branches drooped so low that they grazed the water. An elegant grey heron stalked its way across the tranquil surface, its long neck curving in the shape of an “s” while it hunted with round, yellow eyes for its next meal. Its pinkish-yellow, tapered beak plunged into the water to snatch up a small fish that it ingested with relish.

They stood near the bank of the pond, watching the heron fill its belly with necessary sustenance. It seemed unaware of their presence and was content to strut past them on its brown, long legs without so much as a glance at them.

Jaskier murmured, “Have you wondered what happened to the previous owners of this manor?”

“They’re toads.”

Jaskier gave Geralt a wide-eyed look, his jaw sagging.

“Geralt! That’s rather judgmental of you towards people you’ve never met—”

Geralt pointed at a patch of lily pads abutting the bank.

“They’re toads,” Geralt reiterated—and now Jaskier noticed the knot of brown toads loitering on the lily pads, three of them.

With his jaw sagging a second time, he gaped at them. At a very bloated, wart-covered one that glared at them with beady, black eyes. He covered what he could of his rotund belly with his hands in a protective manner from that hostile glare. If a look could murder, that toad was the lord of one that could slay a pack of Archespores.

He cleared his throat, then said, “Yennefer’s doing, I presume?”

“Hmmn.”

Jaskier translated that as, _who else is vicious enough to transform people into toads, and confine them to a pond where they can see their servants and extreme wealth being usurped by someone else?_

The fat, malicious toad ribbited at them.

“Tell me they deserved it.”

Geralt glanced at him with raised eyebrows, and said, “If you believe her side of the story, she claimed that she’d met the duke, duchess, and their son at a king’s birthday banquet seven years ago. The duke had assumed she was a whore to service the nobles, and told her that to her face.”

Jaskier hissed and winced.

“The duchess and their son witnessed the encounter—and laughed when the duke offered her the privilege of licking his leather boots before he fucked her in front of the other guests.”

Jaskier winced even harder.

“She pretended to be visibly upset and made a show of storming off in a huff. Then she followed them back here after the banquet, and proved to them how wrong they’d been about her—vocation.”

“By the gods,” Jaskier said, staring at the pitiful toads that were once a bloody duke, duchess, and their son, “they should count themselves lucky beyond _belief_ that she hadn’t turned them into sentient turds to be stomped on for the next fifty years by Garnet and Snowball!”

He felt Geralt’s gaze on his face, and he turned his head to see Geralt with an expression that was a comical combination of affection and perturbation.

“I am so very glad that you have no magical powers whatsoever,” Geralt said deadpan, his eyes twinkling, “you sadistic creature.”

Whatever riposte Jaskier had to that was swallowed up by a gasp as the grey heron approached the three toads, its eyes bulging in its deadly focus. The smallest toad scrambled off a lily pad into the water. The medium-sized toad performed a rather sensational backflip into the water after the smallest one. The remaining toad was still giving them the evil eye, and seemed oblivious to the advancing, feathered manifestation of death.

Jaskier tugged on Geralt’s arm and whirled away from the pond.

“Right,” he exclaimed, leading his witcher back onto the stone path. “Moving on!”

He ignored Geralt’s amused huff of laughter—and the awful croak that rang from the pond.

They strolled on, past shrubs of buttercups in full bloom that fringed the path. Jaskier halted in front of one bush and plucked two sprigs abundant with flowers from it. Geralt had no clue of his intentions until he was already gripping one of Geralt’s shoulders while reaching up to tuck one sprig behind Geralt’s right ear, using Geralt’s long hair to hold it in place.

To his pleasant surprise, Geralt allowed him to tuck the second sprig behind the other ear, framing Geralt’s handsome face between the yellow posies. In turn, Jaskier allowed Geralt the mock glower aimed at him with eyes that twinkled even brighter in the sunlight. When he stepped back, he found himself spellbound by how the delicate flowers accentuated his witcher’s rugged features, and somehow made him appear even more beautiful at the same time.

Oh, _oh_ , there his heart went once again, falling head over heels in love with this amber-eyed, white-haired personification of perfection.

“I don’t know how I ever managed to walk through that portal,” he whispered, caressing Geralt’s cheek with his fingers.

The twinkle in Geralt’s eyes transmuted into a gleam that was familiar to Jaskier, yet one whose name he’d forgotten—until Geralt spoke.

“I thought you’d gone out for a walk. To—clear your head, perhaps. I thought you would come back. So I waited for you,” Geralt said, grasping his upper arms and then stroking them from shoulder to elbow. “I waited until morning—and then I realized your things weren’t in the room. Your lute was gone.”

Jaskier’s hand rested on his witcher’s chest. Over that noble, substantial heart that pulsed in time with his. That could splinter as easily as his could.

“I never wanted to leave you,” he said, pressing his other hand to Geralt’s side, clutching it. “You know that.”

Geralt said nothing. Geralt gazed down at him with tender eyes that sliced deeper than any word could.

“Geralt. I _never_ wanted to leave you.” He swallowed hard. Clutched at Geralt’s sides with both hands, and wished he could draw his witcher closer despite their bellies already touching. “You _know_ that. Right?”

Geralt brushed those callused, thick fingers up the side of his face. Ran them through his dark hair above his ear.

“Tell me what I smell of, Jaskier.”

In a different conversation, one with jest and laughter, he would have risen to the bait and said _onion_ , and they would laugh about it and reminisce about their first meeting in Posada. But there was nothing funny about this conversation. There was nothing funny at all about Geralt believing that he’d gladly walked away from him in Gulet.

He shut his eyes, and saw himself and Geralt on that road leading out of Posada: Geralt, in his black armor and clothing, his trusty sword strapped to his back, leading Roach by her reins. He in his favorite blue-and-red doublet and breeches, his lute safe in its case on his back, doing his best to keep abreast with Geralt.

How could he ever forget what he’d said that day to the man he’d already fallen head over heels in love with—and always would, as inevitably as the sea lapping at the sand until the end of time, and beyond?

_You smell of death, and destiny. Heroics. And heartbreak._

He opened his stinging eyes, and rasped, “You smell of life, and free will.” He skimmed his hands up Geralt’s sides to that broad, hair-dusted chest. Pressing his hands on it, not to push Geralt away but to feel how solid, how _real_ his witcher was, right here, right now. “Safety.” He swallowed hard again, his throat bobbing. He looked Geralt in the eye. “And heartbreak.”

Yes, that was the gleam in Geralt’s still tender eyes.

“You just—swooped into my life like a great bird from the sky,” Geralt said, rubbing his upper arms and back with those large, lovely hands. “I thought you were mad, really, when you followed me out of Posada. When I told you to go away and you refused to, even after I punched you in the gut.”

Jaskier seized the opportunity to reclaim his composure. He made a face and said, “It hurt, by the way. I had a dark bruise the shape of your fist on my belly for a week after that.”

Geralt squeezed his upper arms in a deliberate, sensual way that sent a frisson of lust down his spine.

“Did you touch it when you were alone?” Geralt growled, his eyes fierce and unblinking.

It astonished Jaskier how sexy _and_ terrifying Geralt was even with those buttercups in his hair.

“All the time,” he whispered. “I’d press on it, so it would last longer.”

Geralt scrunched his eyes shut, and Jaskier knew that his masochistic streak was something they were going to discuss sooner or later. If he was right, Geralt _liked_ that he rejoiced in the marks Geralt left upon his body—and gods, he couldn’t _wait_ to share his fantasies of being held down by the wrists while his beloved witcher fucked him.

But now, Geralt was using his words, and using them so heart-wrenchingly well.

“I punched you because I thought it was the easiest, least harmful way to prove to you that I’m—a monster.” Those amber eyes were heavy-lidded with regret. With something dark and a century old, that was born the day a mother chose to abandon her boy at the foot of Kaer Morhen. “I thought that, once you realized I was willing to hurt a man who just— _stood_ there, you would know better. And leave me.”

Jaskier’s hands clenched into fists on Geralt’s chest. He knew what Geralt was going to say. He knew what was coming.

“But you didn’t leave me then. So I prepared myself for the day when you did. Like everyone else.” Geralt said those three words without self-pity. Geralt said them as if being abandoned was a fact of life set in stone for him. Something inescapable, inevitable. Something justified. “I waited, day after day. Year after year. Decade after decade. But—”

Geralt cut himself off as callously as a blade across the throat. He lowered his eyes, and pursed his lips—and Jaskier could sense the guilt emanating from him like agitated ripples across a lake. Geralt was regretting that he spoke at all.

Oh, yes, the following words Geralt had to say were going to _hurt_ him.

And he wanted each and every one of them, because they were Geralt’s words for him.

“No,” he said, grasping the sides of Geralt’s head with both hands. “No, don’t hide from me. You don’t have to anymore. You never had to.” He caressed the apples of his witcher’s cheeks with his thumbs. “Let me hear you. See you.”

Geralt’s neck jounced with a hard swallow. Geralt gazed into his eyes.

“When you still hadn’t left me after twenty years,” Geralt rasped, “I thought—for once, that I was wrong.”

Although Jaskier was gazing up at Geralt’s face, what he saw was that decorated passageway in that inn in Gulet—through large, amber eyes that stared ahead, that revealed nothing to anyone he passed.

Who would look at the White Wolf’s ferocious mien, and stop to ponder if there was a heart that felt anything beneath it? Who would dare to believe that the Butcher of Blaviken had a heart at all? Much less one that could break with some choice words, then with a self-imposed silence?

No one would.

No one, except the man who’d laid wide blue eyes on him, and saw his warm, beating heart enshrouded in a daunting, scarred body, and sung about it for all to hear and know.

There he was, in Geralt’s skin as Geralt strode away from their room, from the single click of its door shutting. There he was in Geralt’s skin, Geralt’s heart, knowing at last what his witcher had felt and thought as he’d walked away from the one man he had believed would never leave him.

_Oh, there it was, that heartbreak twenty years in the making._

With his hands still grasping Geralt’s head, Jaskier pressed their foreheads together. He could blame the dazzling sunshine for the hot welling up of his eyes if he wanted to do so. He swallowed down the lump in his throat that threatened to stifle his own words.

“My white wolf,” he whispered wetly, caressing Geralt’s cheeks again. “I never, ever wanted to leave you. Never.”

Geralt pressed a gentle hand to the side of his round belly. Their little, sweet baby reacted to the touch with a nudge. He felt that comforting wave of warmth radiating from his belly, through his chest.

“I know,” Geralt murmured. “My loyal lark.”

“And you are _not_ a monster.” His grip on the sides of Geralt’s head firmed. “Do you hear me?”

Geralt’s eyes fluttered shut, and he whispered, “I hear you.”

Geralt drew Jaskier closer, wrapping both arms around him. He laid his head upon Geralt’s chest—and knew that Geralt had already forgiven him from the moment his witcher had stormed out of that inn room in Gulet, before the door had clicked shut.

A witcher’s heart had a languid beat in contrast to a human’s heart. Every time Jaskier had laid his ear on Geralt’s chest, he’d heard a heartbeat that throbbed in time with his. He’d heard a quickened heartbeat that terrifying beasts, extreme violence, or formidable women couldn’t engender.

He heard a quickened heartbeat that the mere press of his hand did.

The stinging wetness receded from his eyes. He carded his fingers through the dark grey curls that peeked through the low collar of Geralt’s shirt. He listened to that quickened heartbeat under his ear, and basked in its steadfast rhythm that was for him alone.

“When Yennefer teleported Ciri and me here, I thought I’d gone insane.”

Jaskier’s hand went still. He pressed his cheek to Geralt’s chest. Geralt rubbed soothing circles on his lower back.

He murmured, “Why?”

“I thought I heard your heartbeat,” Geralt replied, resting a cheek on the crown of his head. “Then I heard you speak, but I didn’t see you. Not at first. I never thought you would end up here with Yennefer, and she didn’t tell me. So I thought—I was hallucinating.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier straightened up so he could look his witcher in the eye. “How did you know what my heartbeat sounded like, even then?”

Geralt’s eyes flitted to the side. The sprigs of buttercups were still tucked behind his ears, and combined with a crown of golden sunlight, they made him look like an ethereal fae being.

Geralt cleared his throat, then said, “My hearing, it’s—you know that my senses are heightened.”

Jaskier made a humming sound of agreement.

“It’s—heightened enough that I can hear your heartbeat even when you’re standing a dozen feet away from me. So I—” Geralt cleared his throat a second time, his cheeks flushing. “I memorized it. Months after we first met.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt with wide eyes and parted lips. If Geralt had _memorized_ his heartbeat months after they first met in Posada, that meant Geralt had a mental record of his _heartbeat_ for—decades.

“Did you ever listen to it as a lullaby to sleep? What with your insomnia and all.”

It was meant to be a joke, capped with an amused grin. But Geralt’s cheeks reddened even more.

“Yes. It couldn’t help all the time, but—it worked well when it did.”

For at least ten seconds, Jaskier was rendered speechless. It seemed Geralt’s goal for today was to stupefy him with as many poignant revelations as possible. What else could he do, but let that beatific smile spread across his face again, and crinkle his eyes and light him up from head to toes?

Geralt’s glower lost so much of its force when it was garlanded by lemon-yellow flowers, when it was laden with so much love.

“Don’t worry about your crusty reputation.” Jaskier tapped his adorable witcher on the tip of that distinguished nose. “I still love the way you just sit in the corner and brood, you big, old, unbearably crotchety loner.”

Geralt’s glower lasted for several more seconds. Then Geralt was embracing him again, pulling him tight to that gorgeous, warm body. Planting a kiss on his forehead.

“Not a loner anymore,” Geralt murmured into his smooth skin.

And Jaskier returned the snug embrace, feeling the same beatific smile curving up the dark pink lips pressed to his forehead.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Later that night, after Jaskier sucked on Geralt’s luscious cock and was splattered with Geralt’s tasty come from chest to belly, after a shared bath in the copper tub, Jaskier asked, “Why did you strangle Valdo Marx at the Academy?”

They lied nude in bed under the fleece blankets in the same positions they had last night, on their left sides, molded together from head to toes. Geralt exhaled against his nape while using fingertips to mark random patterns on his rotund belly.

“He insulted my songbird’s warbling,” Geralt growled. “Only I can do that.”

Jaskier tugged Geralt’s right hand up to his mouth, and nipped the side of a thick thumb with his blunt teeth. Geralt understood what he’d meant to say anyway, for that broad chest shook against his back with silent mirth, and a large hand caressed the length of his neck, tracing the bump that housed his precious voice.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Five nights later, while Jaskier and Geralt were lounging on the bed, engaged in quiet conversation over potential names for their baby boy, they heard Ciri scream in the front courtyard.

Geralt leapt from the bed and darted to the windows, dressed only in black trousers. Jaskier was in a dark red, shin-length nightgown, sitting up against the headboard, frozen in shock. He was still trying to say something coherent when Geralt darted back to the bed, gave him a swift kiss on the head, and squeezed his shoulders with both hands.

Geralt commanded, “Stay here.”

Jaskier would have objected, if not for the blatant alarm that rounded his witcher’s eyes like saucers.

Geralt sprinted out of the bedroom without putting his boots on.

Jaskier slithered off the bed as fast as he could, using the headboard as leverage to stand up. He held his belly with both hands as he hurried to the windows. From his vantage point, he could see most of the front courtyard—and sprawled face up on the paved ground in front of the manor’s main entrance, was Yennefer, her dark, wavy hair fanned out. Ciri was in a purple nightgown kneeling near her head, calling out her name with a distressed voice.

Blood was pouring out of Yennefer’s nose and down her pallid face to her neck, soaking the fur collar of her coat. Her violet eyes were half-open and glassy.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier whispered, propping himself up with one hand on the window sill. He pressed his other hand harder to his belly.

The last time he, Geralt, or Ciri had seen Yennefer had been three days ago. She’d been absolutely fine then. Exhilarated, as if she’d finally made a breakthrough and knew what she had to do to get what she wanted. He and Geralt were certain she was going to visit Caed Myrkvid again. Geralt had exhorted her to be cautious—and for once, she hadn’t gnashed her teeth at him for daring to tell her what to do.

In retrospect, it seemed even she had been anxious about what she would encounter at Caed Myrkvid this time.

He watched Geralt sprint into the courtyard and kneel on the other side of Yennefer, facing Ciri. He found himself able to smile softly for a few seconds at Geralt assuaging the girl’s panic by gently holding her head and stroking her untamed hair. The smile vanished when Geralt tapped Yennefer’s cheek and said the sorceress’s name, and received no response whatsoever.

Yennefer looked like she was dead.

The horrific thought almost caused bile to shoot up Jaskier’s throat. He pressed a hand to his cold chest as Geralt scooped Yennefer up in his arms. He pivoted from the windows and strode to the open door, hurrying out and down the passageway to meet Geralt at the head of the stairs. By the time he reached it, Geralt was already there with a red-eyed Ciri, carrying a limp, unconscious Yennefer.

Now Jaskier could see the blood that also poured from Yennefer’s ears into her straggly hair.

When Ciri saw him, her face crumpled. She dashed to him and hugged him above his belly. He enfolded her in his arms, making shushing noises into her hair, rubbing her heaving back.

“She’s going to fine, she’s going to be fine,” he murmured, and he couldn’t bear to glance at Geralt. “You’ll see.”

He and Ciri trailed after Geralt up the next flight of stairs. Yennefer’s bedroom was on the next floor of the manor that Jaskier had never set foot in until tonight: the entire floor was dedicated to Yennefer’s bedroom, private library, and private workrooms. It appeared the same like the rest of the manor, and with all the doors shut, he saw nothing that could tell him what the sorceress might be up to in these rooms.

Ciri guided them to the bedroom. It was even larger and more opulent than Jaskier and Geralt’s, with a humongous bed swamped in multi-colored pillows. Geralt laid her on the bed, propping her upper body up on the mountain of pillows. Her limbs flopped like a doll’s. Her eyes were now shut, but that didn’t reassure Jaskier in any way. He stood near the bed with Ciri at his side. She clung onto his nightgown with both hands, and he hugged her to his side, rubbing her arm to comfort her.

Geralt sat on the side of the bed with a huff of breath. He glanced at the open door, and so did Jaskier.

“Get clean cloths and hot water,” Geralt snarled at the two servants who’d appeared in the doorway and were giving Yennefer overwrought glances, wringing their hands.

They instantly scampered away to do the legendary witcher’s bidding.

Yennefer remained unconscious when the servants returned and cleaned her face and neck of blood. Jaskier, Geralt, and Ciri observed in troubled silence. No one spoke until the servants had done their duty and left with bowls full of bloody water and blood-saturated cloths. As they stared at Yennefer’s face, fresh blood trickled out of her nostrils, as if there was some sort of internal injury in her head.

Jaskier pressed his lips into a worried line. He glanced at Geralt to find that Geralt was already gazing at him, expression impassive save for those amber eyes that spoke volumes to him.

Even if they attempted to leave the manor to seek a healer, they couldn’t—for their safety, specifically Ciri’s, Yennefer ensured that the sole way anyone could enter or leave this place was via a portal. Unless they knew how to break her spell over this place. Which none of them did.

All they could do was wait, and hope that Yennefer was strong enough to recover on her own.

“What happened to her?” Ciri asked with a small voice, wiping at her eyes with one hand.

Jaskier hugged her tighter to his side. He gazed back at Geralt with a pensive frown, and replied her with an equally small voice.

“She found the tree.”

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Yennefer was in a deep coma for four days. Ciri stayed at her side in bed for all four days, while Jaskier and Geralt visited multiple times a day to check on the sorceress’s condition.

They were aware that Yennefer had given Ciri free rein of all her rooms, but had not given either man the same privilege. They respected that, staying only as long as they had to while Geralt did his best to expedite the healing process with his witcher potions. Jaskier knew that they were hazardous at the very least, lethal at worst, for human consumption, but Yennefer was no ordinary human.

She had never been ordinary, really, when Jaskier thought about it. She might even argue that she wasn’t human anymore, like Geralt wasn’t human anymore after his witcher trials.

“What does that potion do?” Ciri asked Geralt on the second day, after he dripped one globule of a vivid blue liquid onto Yennefer’s tongue.

“It slows down and ceases any hemorrhages,” Geralt replied, recapping the dark amber bottle in his hand. “And accelerates healing.”

Ciri frowned, and said, “Hemorrhages?”

“Hmmn. Severe blood loss.”

“Oh.”

Ciri lied back down on her side on the bed, facing Yennefer who was tucked under fleece blankets up to the neck, resuming her silent vigil. The sight made Jaskier’s chest twinge even as his lips curled up in a commiserative smile. Perhaps a child’s love and loyalty could lure the sorceress back to the land of the living, if everything else failed.

On the morning of the fifth day, Ciri joined Jaskier and Geralt in the dining room for a hushed breakfast. The young princess scarcely had an appetite, poking at her boiled egg with a fork, her eyes downcast and her lips downturned. Jaskier and Geralt ate their meat pies with a little more enthusiasm, although they were as apprehensive as Ciri was.

Other than Geralt’s potions, there was nothing else to be done for Yennefer. At least the bleeding from her ears and nose had stopped on the evening of the second day. Geralt considered that a positive sign of healing taking place: as long as she was breathing, it meant her magic was doing its work to heal her body, and that sooner or later, she was going to awaken and—

Ciri exclaimed, “Yennefer!”

Jaskier and Geralt glanced up at the arched entrance to the dining room in unison—and saw Yennefer standing there in the white nightgown her servants had dressed her in the night she’d returned. Her hair was a frizzled riot that framed her ashen face. Her plump lips were almost colorless. Her eyes were ringed with the dark purple of exhaustion, but they were also wide with alertness.

The flare of triumph in them was as plain as Ciri’s jubilation at seeing her conscious and mobile.

Ciri shoved her chair back and dashed to Yennefer, hugging her tight around her waist. Yennefer gazed down at her in what seemed to be wordless shock. Then, haltingly, Yennefer returned the embrace, her ashen face softening with fondness that she couldn’t conceal in her tenuous state.

Jaskier’s face softened as well. He cleared his throat, and said, “Was about time you woke up from your utterly unnecessary beauty sleep, you vain hag.”

Yennefer raised her head and glanced at him, and her lips arched into a smirk that warmed him inside.

“You look like you gorged on half a dozen honey cakes while I was away,” she croaked, shuffling to the table with Ciri at her side.

Jaskier let out an indignant, “Hmph!” He made a show of smoothing out his cropped, maroon doublet and his embroidered teal tunic that stretched over his belly. All right, _maybe_ his belly had expanded a _little_ more this week, but it had nothing to do with honey cakes and everything to do with his baby growing healthy inside him!

Geralt raised his eyebrows at both of them, but Jaskier could see the relief in those crinkled amber eyes. Ciri waited until Yennefer was seated at the head of the table before she sat down herself. Geralt said nothing, but grasped Yennefer’s right wrist and gave it a squeeze on the table top.

Within a minute, Yennefer’s servants swarmed into the room with numerous plates of freshly prepared food and arranged them on the table in front of her. Jaskier gaped in amazement as she scoffed down plate after plate of buttered bread, sliced fruits, meat pies, and sausages, far more than Geralt could consume in multiple sittings. Her physical appearance altered before his very eyes: with each devoured plate, her face filled out more. The rings of exhaustion around her eyes faded to light purple shadows under her eyes. Her lips rejuvenated with their typical pink color. Her hair was restored to its dense grandeur.

Geralt didn’t blink an eye at the transformation. Neither did Ciri. Jaskier had to remind himself that Yennefer was at least seventy years old—and he realized then that he might have just witnessed how the sorceress maintained her youthful appearance with her magic. And, well, a banquet’s worth of food.

Yennefer sounded much more like herself at the end of the meal, when she stood up and said to Jaskier and Geralt, “Come with me. Now.”

Ciri got the hint, and said to them that she was going to the library to resume reading an engrossing book she’d discovered there. Yennefer stroked her hair, and Geralt gave her nod with crinkled eyes. Somehow, Ciri understood that the ensuing conversation for the three adults was a consequential one, for she hugged Jaskier tight at the dining room’s entrance before departing alone.

Yennefer led Jaskier and Geralt to the third living room. The armchair that Geralt had broken was long gone. Sunlight permeated the room through its narrow, tall windows and gave it a warmth that Jaskier couldn’t feel in his chilled, trembling extremities. Jaskier sat on Geralt’s right on the ostentatious, red velvet settee while Yennefer settled herself to Geralt’s left in the armchair perpendicular to the settee. She looked fatigued even now, as if she’d been thoroughly drained of her magic from healing herself and was running on her last emergency reserves of it.

Between Jaskier’s flamboyant clothes and Yennefer’s white nightgown, Geralt was a gloomy figure in a dark grey linen shirt and black trousers. This was one of the rare times that Geralt’s brusque conduct during a conversation was a boon.

“The tree,” Geralt growled, grasping Jaskier’s left hand in his right hand on his tense thigh. “What is it?”

Jaskier gave his witcher’s hand a squeeze, then grasped it with both hands. It grounded him in the moment. Hindered his breaths from quickening with dread.

Yennefer stared at them with wide eyes. With that flare of triumph in them.

“It’s a god. A god so old, it existed before this world did.”

Jaskier and Geralt stared back at her with eyes widened in shock. Then they glanced at each other, robbed of any words to say to that.

It was one thing to cut the heart out of a monster, another to chop down a towering tree that seemed to touch the stars.

But how did one kill a _god?_

Jaskier already knew the answer to that: a god couldn’t be killed. A god that was powerful enough to create new life in a human man, old enough to exist before this very world did, was surely immortal. Impervious to all harm that even the greatest mage or warrior today could inflict upon it with magic or weapons.

Geralt squeezed his hands, and he didn’t complain at the ache in their bones.

He was scared too. So scared for their little, sweet baby boy.

“Why me?”

Geralt was staring at Yennefer again, his amber eyes ferocious. He was a warrior prepared to battle against a god, to save his baby from being spirited away at all costs—and Jaskier loved him so much for it.

Yennefer’s lips curled up in an amused smirk.

“It has a crush on you.”

Jaskier and Geralt stared at her, expressionless.

“What,” they muttered in unison.

She lounged in the armchair, resting her forearms on its cushioned armrests, crossing her straightened legs at the ankles.

“It likes you, Geralt. A god _likes_ you.” Her smirk broadened. “Pretty much fell in love with you when it saw you stumbling around in the dark in its woods.”

“What!” Jaskier squealed. Then he blinked, glanced at Geralt. At those handsome features that were uniquely his witcher’s, that had captured his heart twenty years ago—and his entire face softened along with his smitten heart as he murmured, “Can you blame it?”

Yennefer snorted. Geralt bowed his head, but his lips quirked up.

Jaskier planted a kiss a Geralt’s cheek, and said, “Good to know it at least has fine tastes in men.”

Yennefer shook her head at Jaskier, her lips twisted in a wry smile. Then she let out a long sigh, leaned her head back on the armchair’s headrest and said, “Every one thousand years, it deigns to manifest itself in the heart of Caed Myrkvid. It’s so old that it’s forgotten what it used to be before it chose the physical form of an oak tree.”

“Where does it go,” Jaskier asked, “when it isn’t there?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t tell me.” Yennefer’s eyes darkened with disappointment that seemed directed at herself. “I could barely forge a mental connection to it without almost killing myself. The only reason I’m still alive is because it held so much of its power back. I could _feel_ it, like a raging firestorm as vast as the sea, surrounding me. All that stopped this god from obliterating me to nothing was its mercy.”

Jaskier gazed at Yennefer’s pale face, and remembered her half-open, glazed eyes. The torrent of blood that had gushed from her nose and her ears.

“Why did it choose to reveal itself to you this time?”

Yennefer glanced at him. She stared at him, then replied, “I demanded that it told me what its price was for making Geralt’s wish come true.”

Again, Geralt squeezed his hands. Geralt’s face was impassive.

Jaskier stared back at Yennefer. He remembered with startling clarity what she’d said to him months ago, while she’d gazed at him with eyes as fierce and wide as Geralt’s.

_Magic has a price. Always._

And he remembered the even more ominous statements that followed those.

_Whatever this powerful entity is, it chose you for a reason._

_It chose to do this to you for a reason._

“What’s its price, Yennefer?”

Geralt’s voice was so low, so gravelly. Geralt’s spine was stiff and straight. Geralt’s free hand was a white-knuckled fist on his left thigh. Jaskier felt just as anxious and jittery as his witcher. He bit his lower lip, and clenched his hands around Geralt’s right hand.

Yennefer lowered her eyes and inspected the trimmed fingernails of her right hand.

“Oh, it’s a hefty one, Geralt.” She raised her eyebrows, still inspecting her fingernails. “As much as it likes you—I don’t think you’re capable of handling the enormity of it, really.”

Geralt’s lips flattened into a downturned line.

“Yennefer,” he growled.

The sorceress dropped the act and stared back at Geralt, lowering her forearm to the chair’s armrest.

“It was very specific about this.” Yennefer’s violet eyes were a bright purple under the sunlight. “The price is absolutely unavoidable. There is nothing anyone can do to help you escape it. If you even try, it’s vowed to do everything in its power to ensure you fail.” Her lips twisted in that wry smile again. “And you’ve seen what the tiniest speck of its power can do to a sorceress like me.”

Jaskier told himself to breathe. He stroked Geralt’s taut hand with a trembling hand in a despairing attempt to comfort his witcher and himself. If this god was like so many others in the fables and myths he was familiar with, it would demand for that which was most valuable to Geralt, that Geralt would lay down his life for in a heartbeat.

Jaskier pressed his hand to his rotund belly. His constricting throat began to prickle when he felt their little, sweet baby wriggle in response to his touch.

“All right.” Geralt’s eyes remained wide and unblinking as they stared on at Yennefer. “What’s its price?”

Yennefer glanced at Jaskier, her expression inscrutable. His eyes stung, and his breath snagged in his chest, but he gazed back and silently waited for his whole world to end once more.

She returned her intense gaze to Geralt’s face.

They stared at each other for what felt like an excruciating aeon.

Then, Yennefer’s lips parted and spoke six words that did destroy something in Jaskier.

“Geralt—it wants you to be happy.”

Jaskier’s eyes welled up, but his lips were curving up into a tremulous smile. His left hand tightened around Geralt’s right hand gone limp in shock. Geralt was staring at Yennefer with that sledgehammer-to-the-head look, except he appeared more as if a god had just playfully tossed him into the air, beyond the sky, to soar among the eternal stars above all other men.

Geralt couldn’t comprehend the god’s price.

But Jaskier did.

If Geralt’s existence from his birth until the present day could be painted on an ever-unfurling scroll, the scroll would be as black as the moonless, starless night. Coated in pain, and loneliness, and self-loathing. Once in a long while, golden sparks of light would blink in the perpetual darkness: the fleeting moments of glee, or pleasure.

But what of happiness? What of true happiness, in which Geralt felt no torment, nor expected to suffer for it later as its price?

Had Geralt felt true happiness in his life?

“I don’t understand,” Geralt rasped. He sounded so much like the little, sweet boy he might have been almost a century ago, if he hadn’t been cast aside by the one person who should have loved him more than anything else in the world.

Yes, Jaskier understood why the god had levied such a price upon Geralt: in order to pay it, Geralt had no choice but to kill the monster that he believed he was, that warped version of himself that he believed was all he was. No choice but to sacrifice that which he’d clung to his whole life, that ruled so many of his actions and thoughts for as long.

No choice but to finally let go of all that self-hatred and worthlessness.

To be happy.

That was, after all, what one would wish for someone they loved.

“That’s the price, Geralt. For giving you the love of your life, and the child you never thought you could have—it practically commanded you to be happy, or else,” Yennefer said, her eyes crinkled and twinkling. “See? I told you you can’t handle it.”

Geralt’s eyes were glistening. He lowered them. His throat bobbed with a hard swallow, and he rasped, “So. This—tree god. It granted my wish because it—wants me to be happy?”

“As I said, it’s pretty much in love with you. I suppose it deems your happiness to be enough of a reward for its hard work.” Yennefer released a huff of laughter that almost sounded sardonic, but Jaskier knew it wasn’t, for her heavy-lidded eyes were warm. “A god with an actual heart for us humble mortals. Imagine that.”

Jaskier thought that he wasn’t going to come apart at the seams, that he wasn’t going to dissolve into tears—but then Geralt pressed a hand to the upper swell of his belly, and their baby wriggled. Their baby boy. Their little, sweet baby boy, who no one was going to take away from them. Who was theirs to keep, and love, for the rest of their lives.

And the only price they had to pay was for Geralt to be happy.

A price paid in full, when Jaskier chose to keep and love their baby boy long before he knew he was theirs, when Jaskier and Geralt chose to finally reveal their true feelings for each other and became as one.

“We’re all right,” Geralt said into his ear. “Everything’s all right.”

He was bawling his eyes out into the side of Geralt’s neck, his arms wrapped around Geralt’s torso. Geralt clasped him in those brawny arms, and rocked them both back and forth, rubbing his heaving back.

Out there in the heart of a magical grove, a god that was truly still merciful, still vigilant for pleas from a splintered heart, had heard Geralt, and gazed into his good soul—and set things right.

“Everything’s all right, my love,” Geralt whispered.

Jaskier wholeheartedly believed him.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

At some point, Yennefer had left the living room to give them privacy, and to return to a restorative slumber in her bedroom. Jaskier recalled the stroke of a slender hand down the length of his right forearm while he’d still been in Geralt’s tight embrace on the settee.

“There’s something I have to show you,” he said to Geralt, when his chest was no longer hitching, and his sore eyes were drying. “In our room.”

They sauntered side by side in an awed silence from the living room to their bedroom, Geralt’s arms hugging him, and he leaning his head on Geralt’s shoulder. He couldn’t feel the carpeted floor or the stairs underneath his feet. He felt as if he was walking nine feet high in the air, as if he was flying over an exultant sea and he never had to alight on the ground again.

Their baby was safe. So were they.

They were all right.

Everything was all right.

In the bedroom, Jaskier walked to the grand armoire that now contained their clothes. It had a set of drawers in it, built into the right side, and from the top drawer, Jaskier pulled out one of his finished knitting projects.

“I knitted this weeks before you arrived at the manor,” he said, approaching a stunned Geralt with the yellow item in hand. “It’s an envelope blanket.” He held it up by its pointed arms, stretching it so Geralt could see its five-point star shape. “See, this is where his arms go. And his legs go into the lower triangles, and this part is the cap for his head.”

It took Geralt more than a few seconds to react at all, to reach up for the envelope blanket and grasp it in those callused, large hands. The envelope blanket appeared so small in them.

“This—it looks exactly like—”

Geralt pressed his lips into a colorless line, but he was anything but upset. Jaskier covered Geralt’s hands with his so that they were grasping the envelope blanket together.

“I think that when you saw me and our baby on the beach, it wasn’t just your wish,” he murmured, gazing down at the envelope blanket with Geralt. “I think—the tree god showed you a glimpse of a possible future. And, you made it real when you said yes.”

He felt Geralt’s hands tighten around the envelope blanket, scrunching it. He raised his head, and he saw that Geralt was gritting his teeth, that Geralt’s narrowed eyes were glistening again. He gently took back the star-shaped envelope blanket. He fell easily into Geralt’s arms that pulled him so tight to that gorgeous, muscular body that was warmer than the morning sunshine bathing them through the windows.

Geralt nuzzled the side of his neck and breathed in his scent. The stretchy envelope blanket was squashed between their bodies. His belly was snug against Geralt’s, and in it, their baby was slumbering once more, safe and sound and at utter peace. He laid his head on Geralt’s rising and falling chest, over that noble, substantial heart that pulsated for him and their baby boy. He felt Geralt’s cheek on the crown of his head.

“Keeping you happy for the rest of our lives is going to be quite the challenge for me,” Jaskier murmured, his lips curled up.

“You’re doing an adequate job so far,” Geralt rasped, and Jaskier’s smile spread.

“Well, practice does make perfect. I’ll probably need decades of practice.” Jaskier pressed his cheek to Geralt’s chest. He swallowed past a small lump in his throat. “A lifetime of it.”

Geralt’s arms tightened around him.

Jaskier cleared his throat, and said blithely, “So, you had better stick around for the next thirty years, you crabby boor.”

“No.”

Oh, Jaskier knew better at this point than to jump to conclusions and overreact. He slowly straightened up and looked Geralt in the eye with raised eyebrows.

“Why not, hm?”

Geralt’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Geralt brushed his cheek with the back of those lovely, thick fingers.

“Thirty years is but a quick blink of the eye to me, my love.” Geralt’s eyes crinkled even more, and gleamed with a radiance that the summer sun would envy. “At the very least—sixty years.”

Jaskier’s own eyes crinkled even as he swallowed past a bigger lump in his throat.

“You’ll have to keep me away from honey cakes, then,” he rasped.

“Hmmn.” Geralt stroked the apple of his cheek with a thumb. “Is that our contract, then? You keep me happy, and I keep you away from honey cakes?”

Years and years ago, long before they were in Cintra attending Pavetta’s betrothal feast, Jaskier had already fantasized about being married to Geralt. Fantasized that they had matching gold rings on the fourth fingers of their left hands, engraved with a specific line from his notebook of lyrics.

_The path of true love ne’er did run smooth._

But now, he knew that while having such matching rings would be fabulous, he and Geralt didn’t need them. They didn’t need to prove to anyone that they were destined for each other. That they _chose_ each other, out of all the people in this world.

“It’s a start.” He drew Geralt’s head down with one hand to touch their foreheads together. “We can add things as we go along, hm? I’m sure we’ll have a list of stipulations miles long after sixty years.”

The tender kiss Geralt drew him into was the appreciation of his faith in them. The reaffirmation of the lifelong vow they’d sealed the night they had made love for the first time, an even more astonishing thing that renewed them whole, body and soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, did y'all think I would hurt Geralt and Jaskier and their baby?! *grin* And yes, that "line of lyric" was indeed a silent tribute to The Bard of our universe. 
> 
> In the next and final update for the main story: _baby_. 👶🏼
> 
> Just so y'all know, although the main story will be complete with the next update, I intend to post multiple codas after it. Most of them will be from Geralt's point of view. I'll give more info about them on the next update.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, here we are at the grand mega-beast of a finale for this story--a whoopin' 12,000+ words! Y'all have my writing buds to thank for that, because one said, "Dude, are you aware that in medieval times, there was no formula milk or pasteurized milk?" And another said, "Ya know, if an ancient god thought of everything, this singing guy would _definitely_ be breastfeeding his baby." And lo and behold, this update ballooned after going down the rabbit hole of more research on pregnancy, breastfeeding, and lactation. By the way, did you know that [men can lactate, and that there was even a case of a father breastfeeding two of his babies](https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/61894/can-men-lactate)? What an amazing world we live in.
> 
> This update is the one that earns the "Jaskier whump" tag. I don't want to spoil what happens via tags, so all I'll say is: 1) I will always warn for major character death, and since you don't see it in the tags, let that be your reassurance, and 2) the "graphic childbirth" tag is more for the descriptions of the pain Jaskier endures than anything else, but since your mileage may vary, I've added that anyway to be safe. 
> 
> Also, Tata means father in Polish. I thought it was a cute and silent tribute to The Witcher's Polish origins.
> 
> Let's kick off this last update for the main story with a GIF of my favorite Geraskier conversation from episode 1x06, which I assume y'all already know by heart:  
> 

There was nothing that could surprise Jaskier anymore. Really, there wasn’t. What could top the stupendous magnitude of an ancient, generous god, in the incarnation of a gargantuan oak tree, making him pregnant with Geralt’s baby to bring happiness to his witcher?

Nothing could top that. Not even his nipples deciding to become mini waterfalls of milk in his eighth month of pregnancy.

“Is this the part where I start screaming in horror?”

Sitting propped up by oodles of pillows, swathed with fleece blankets up to hips, he stared down at his chest, at the twin wet trails running down his beige tunic. He was grateful that he and Geralt were having dinner in their bedroom and not in the dining room with Yennefer and Ciri. The sorceress would have ribbed him about this by calling him a fat cow and demanding him to make moo-moo noises. Or worse, ordered him to contribute to the manor’s milk supply, because one of the cows had fallen ill and was still recovering. She was the bastion of perverse practicality like that.

Geralt, sitting on a chair beside the bed with a plate of bread-and-butter pudding in hand, also stared at Jaskier’s chest. Then he opened his mouth for a few silent seconds. Then he pressed those delectable, dark pink lips together. Then he opened his mouth again, to calmly say, “No.”

Jaskier stared at him. Then he glanced down at his chest once more. Then he glanced at Geralt again, and said, “Oh, good. I wasn’t really in the mood for that anyway.” He made grabby hands for the third plate of pudding that Geralt had left on the bedside table, next to his empty one. “Now, my darling witcher, pass me that pudding.”

“No.”

Jaskier pouted at Geralt, and said, “Why not?”

“You already had a plate of it,” Geralt replied, and had the audacity to spoon a huge mouthful of scrumptious pudding into his gob while he was at it.

Jaskier jabbed a forefinger in the direction of the full plate that he couldn’t reach.

“Then who is that plate for?!”

Geralt took his sweet time chewing and swallowing, staring at him with a deadpan expression. He sputtered with his hands in fists of frustration, then pointed at his empty plate and exclaimed, “That was for our baby!” He pointed at the full plate. “ _That_ one is for _me!_ ”

Geralt’s sadistic response was to take the full plate of bread-and-butter pudding from the bedside table, pour its contents onto his quarter-full plate, and devour it all in five gulps. Jaskier sputtered and yelled at him all the while to stop eating _his_ pudding, plucking up one of the pillows from the bed to bash whatever part of Geralt was nearest to him.

To his dismay, the pillow inflicted no punishment whatsoever on Geralt’s trunk-like thighs.

“Jaskier, we spoke about this.” Geralt’s eyebrows formed a grey, furry caterpillar above glowering amber eyes. “Too much sugary food is bad for you and the baby.”

“And it isn’t bad for _you?_ ”

Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not the pregnant one. I am a witcher with a metabolism much faster than yours.”

“Did you see how _tiny_ the pudding was?!” Jaskier smacked Geralt’s thighs with the pillow again, and the cruel lout didn’t even react to that. “I am eating for two people! I need at least _four_ plates of pudding!”

Geralt sighed, then muttered, “Do you want Yennefer to put you in a time out? Because this is how you make Yennefer put you in a time out when she gets here.”

For three seconds, Jaskier considered flinging the pillow at that deadpan, stupid face with its twinkling, stupid eyes that had no right to be so fetching at over a hundred years of age. He flung the pillow onto the bed with a grunt instead. It bounced once and plunged off the edge to oblivion. He sat back against his throne of pillows and stuck out his lower lip at Geralt, who sighed once more, then collected all the empty plates and stood up to walk over to the writing desk.

It’d been cleared of Jaskier’s notebooks and sheafs of papers. Geralt stacked the dessert plates on top of the empty dinner plates on the desk, next to the full tankard of ale that his _cruel_ witcher insisted he could not drink. Something about doctors and healers alike claiming that alcohol was bad for the baby, too.

Their baby boy wriggled under him palm when he pressed his hand to his rotund belly. There was next to no space inside him anymore—but he had over a month left to go.

“Why, yes, sweetheart, you’re so right,” Jaskier said, pointedly refusing to look at Geralt. “Your Tata is being very mean to Daddy today.”

Geralt walked back to the chair and sat on it. He let out a low grunt that sounded both annoyed and fond.

“Tata wants your daddy to be healthy and safe,” Geralt growled, pressing a large hand next to Jaskier’s on his belly. “But he is very stubborn. Perhaps he’ll listen to you instead, and take care of himself better so he’ll be with your Tata for a very long time.”

Jaskier shifted his hand so it rested on Geralt’s. Oh, there his beloved witcher went, using his words like the sharpest, thinnest blades, like the skillful swordmaster he was.

“Not fair,” he murmured, looking at Geralt again, his lips tremoring from more than mere mirth.

“Who said anything about playing fair?”

He rolled his eyes at Geralt’s smirk, but slotted his fingers between Geralt’s.

“Fine, _one_ plate of pudding was enough for today, thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.”

He drew Geralt’s hand to his lips and kissed its palm. He shut his eyes and held it to his face for several seconds, then allowed it to slide down his cheek, his neck, to his chest. It hovered over his left nipple. Then callused fingertips traced the trail of milk drying on his tunic.

“Right, well.” Jaskier cleared his throat, his cheeks heating up at the gentle yet stimulating touch. “I might as well take a bath later, and not bother to change now.” He made a face. “But if Yennefer calls me a fat cow and tries to make me moo like one, I swear I will eat her face.”

Geralt withdrew his hand, then stood up and gazed down at him with those heavy-lidded, warm eyes that Geralt _knew_ would melt him from the inside out.

“Her face isn’t nutritious. You’re better off eating her thighs for that. The thighs on a human body are the most nourishing.”

Jaskier made several faces before settling on one that scrunched his features in a blend of disgust and fascination, and said, “And you know this _how?_ ”

Geralt didn’t answer, and smirked all the way to the shut door of the bedroom that he opened. To neither man’s surprise, Yennefer was standing there in a long-sleeved, dark blue silk dress, right on time for Jaskier’s twice-a-week examination of the baby. She’d insisted on that schedule, now that Jaskier was mere weeks away from giving birth.

He tried not to think too much about that.

It was bad enough that he had recent nightmares of exploding like a rotten fruit. He’d told Geralt about those—but not the ones where he saw the _thing_ that had crawled out of his mangled body. A thing riddled with eyes and fangs, coated in blood.

Of course their baby appeared nothing like that: Yennefer would have seen such characteristics months ago, and she wouldn’t have waited for Geralt to show up before taking critical action. Still, nightmares had a way of burrowing into the psyche, and shoving aside rationality and sangfroid, even when one had a beautiful, brave, devoted witcher for protection from monsters.

“Is he all right?” Jaskier wrung his hands on his lap. “He—he doesn’t have—multiple eyes? Or—or _fangs?_ ”

Yennefer hadn’t said a word after glancing at the drying trails of milk on his tunic. In fact, she hadn’t said a word since Geralt had opened the bedroom door and they’d exchanged a solemn glance that spoke volumes to each other. Volumes that Jaskier couldn’t interpret.

Yennefer now sat on the chair beside the bed, resting a hand on the swell of his belly. Geralt stood next to her, those muscular arms crossed over that broad, hirsute chest. He felt Geralt’s stare on his face like flames that blistered his already heated skin. Yennefer gave him a wide-eyed glance of consternation that would, in very different circumstances, have paralyzed him with fright. It set his heart at rest from its galloping beat. His shoulders loosened with a noiseless sigh.

“Of course not, you birdbrain,” Yennefer replied, aiming a raised eyebrow at Geralt that his witcher ignored. “The baby’s fine. He looks human.”

There it was again, that word: _looks_.

The possibility that although their baby boy was theirs and looked human, but still wasn’t necessarily _human_ , was also something Jaskier had discussed with Geralt a few times. There was no certainty until he was here in the world with them. Geralt’s hair had turned white and his eyes amber due to the witcher trials he’d endured—so what did it mean that their baby had white hair, in that vision the tree god had shown Geralt? Was it just physical resemblance to Geralt? Or was their son going to be a _born_ witcher?

Geralt had been adamant that there was no such thing as a born witcher. All witchers were created through arduous training and trials, using alchemical ingredients, elixirs, and magical mutagenic potions that no one knew how to concoct anymore after fanatics who hated witchers laid siege to Kaer Morhen and killed everyone in the fortress except for Vesemir, the oldest witcher alive who’d taken Geralt under his formidable wing. All witchers had once been ordinary human children.

But there was one thing the both of them were utterly sure about their baby boy: they would always love him, no matter what he was.

Yennefer removed her hand from Jaskier’s rotund belly. She glanced down at it with that rare, soft look and lips quirked up in a charmed smile.

“He’s fine. He’s developing well,” she murmured. “He’s smiling in his sleep.”

Tension ebbed from Jaskier’s body. He slumped back on the pillows, his face softening. He rubbed his belly with both hands. He could see that little, perfect smile in his mind. See his little, sweet baby boy curled up in the snug, warm refuge of his womb, perhaps sucking on an itty-bitty thumb.

His contented feelings persevered until he glanced up at Geralt and saw Geralt’s dour expression as his witcher and Yennefer exchanged another loaded, solemn glance.

“We have to talk about this with him now,” Yennefer said to Geralt.

Geralt glowered at her, and let out a displeased but resigned grunt.

“Talk to me about what?”

They leveled that solemn glance at Jaskier in unison.

“What?” He scrunched the fleece blankets over his thighs in both hands. “Am I dying? Again?”

His facetious tone affected their grave expressions not a bit.

Yennefer sat back in the chair and said, “Jaskier, the baby has to come out somehow.”

Jaskier made a face at them. Really, _that_ was what their stony expressions was all about?

“Of course I know that!” He rolled his eyes. “He can’t grow inside me forever! Obviously, when it’s time to give birth, I’ll just do what I have to.”

Yennefer raised a shapely eyebrow at him.

“And what exactly is it that you have to do?”

He flung his hands up, and said, “What every pregnant woman has to do when it’s time!” He made a sweeping gesture with both hands down his gravid body. “Push the baby out!”

Yennefer stared at him with a blank face. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the skin between them.

“I mean—isn’t that how it goes?” Jaskier’s mouth worked in a series of soundless shapes while Yennefer stared on at him. “I just—push the baby—out—through—”

When the reality of his situation dawned on him, he clamped his lips shut. His wide-eyed gaze dropped to his lower torso. His lower torso, that most certainly did _not_ have the essential parts for a big baby to be pushed out of his body.

“Ah,” he squeaked.

“Ah, indeed,” Yennefer drawled.

No one spoke again until Geralt had walked around the bed to crawl onto it and sit next to Jaskier, also propped up by the pillows and straight-legged. He didn’t like Geralt’s dour expression. That it was there at all meant that this discussion was heading into fraught territory.

“You—you can just—teleport the baby out of me then,” he stammered, his voice still squeaky. “Can’t you?”

Yennefer shook her head.

“I’m still recovering from my encounter with the tree god. I have next to no magic to spare for months yet. And even if I did, you have no idea how risky it is just to open a regular portal and travel through it. You want me to _teleport_ the baby out of you?” Yennefer let out a snort of incredulity, although her violet eyes were benign. “That would probably kill you _and_ the baby.”

Jaskier gulped. “Okay, bad plan. Very bad.”

“Even if someone did try that, the tree god’s already set a defense mechanism in place from the start.” Yennefer crossed her right leg over her left in a graceful move. “That damn _black wall_ is actually a barrier that’s stopping all other magic from affecting the baby. And to a certain extent, you.”

Jaskier let out a heavy breath when he felt Geralt’s right arm wrap around his shoulders, when Geralt rubbed his right upper arm. He turned his head and saw that Geralt’s expression was now one of concern. He gave his darling witcher a small smile.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Jaskier?”

He turned his head to gaze at Yennefer again.

“I can’t use my magic to help you with the birth. No mage can.”

He felt Geralt’s left hand touch the swell of his belly.

“Which means,” Geralt said, his voice so deep and gravelly, “that I will very likely have to cut our baby out of you, when the time comes.”

Jaskier couldn’t rein in the high-pitched whine that burst out of his mouth. Geralt pulled him close with the arm around his shoulders, pressing their cheeks together, rubbing his belly to soothe him.

“Jaskier, you’ll be okay. Yennefer and I will do everything we can to make sure you’re both okay.”

“Well,” Yennefer said to Jaskier, deadpan, “you can always go with your original plan, and just push until the baby rips through your body and out your arse—”

A horrified shriek burst out of his mouth at that.

“Or let the baby claw his way out of your belly—”

An even more shrill shriek burst out of his mouth at _that_. He slapped his hands over his mouth, and tried to remember how to _breathe_ again. Geralt shot Yennefer a vicious, wide-eyed glare that would have made savage warriors shake down to their very bones.

“ _Yennefer!_ ” Geralt snarled, his fangs bared.

Yennefer simply shrugged, and replied with an insouciant voice, “What? If he won’t let you cut him open, how else is he going to give birth?”

Geralt released an irate, rumbling growl. “Tell him about the _drugs_.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, but did as Geralt bade her.

“Look, there’s a collection of drugs that non-magic medics have been experimenting with in the cities across the Continent, called anesthetics. They’re able to render someone unconscious with these anesthetics, and then reverse that loss of consciousness after a period of time.”

With his trembling hands lowered to his belly, Jaskier stared at her for a moment, then stammered, “You mean—I wouldn’t—I won’t feel anything while—while I’m cut?”

“As far as the medics claim, yes.”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt, whose expression had returned to one of concern again. He wrung his fingers over his belly, then asked with a subdued voice, “Will it hurt the baby?”

Yennefer and Geralt shared a grim look.

The sorceress sighed again, then replied, “The keyword here is _experimenting_. It’s a new line of research. The medics have had some successful cases, but—” She pressed her lips into a thin line. “There are far more failures.”

Jaskier swallowed hard. “As in, people took these drugs, and fell unconscious, and never woke up again.”

“Yes.”

Jaskier clenched his hands into fists on his belly. The decision his heart had already made was a frightening one—but it was the only one he could make, for the sake of their little, sweet baby boy.

“No.” He gritted his teeth, then said to Yennefer and Geralt, “No. I refuse these drugs.”

“Jaskier—”

He turned his head to gaze into Geralt’s wide eyes, and said firmly, “No, Geralt. I don’t care what I have to endure. If you have to cut me open to bring our baby into this world, so be it. I don’t care, as long as he’s safe.”

And for the first time, he saw what Geralt looked like when the witcher fell in love with someone, with _him_ all over again: Geralt’s whole face went tender, as did his heavy-lidded amber eyes that filled with such stark, unadulterated love. It was nothing like the lustful stare Geralt had aimed at Yennefer when they’d crossed paths after Rinde, the stare that had warned Jaskier that they would become lovers and leave him with a broken heart. This was a look that he knew was for him alone, that he would see time and again throughout the coming years of their life together.

Well, if he survived his belly being sliced open with a knife and their baby hauled out of it.

“Listen to me, my love,” Geralt murmured, pressing their foreheads together. “I promise you, I will do _everything_ in my power to make sure you and our baby are all right. Yennefer and I will find out more about these anesthetics. And—” Geralt sucked in a long breath through his nose. “And if I have to, I’ll beg the tree god to help us, and I’ll pay whatever price it demands for that.”

Jaskier raised a hand and cupped Geralt’s cheek with it.

“Geralt,” he rasped. “Oh, my gorgeous savior. The tree god wants you to be _happy_ , doesn’t it?” He caressed Geralt’s cheek with his thumb. “So maybe—maybe it already has a plan for the birth, and we just don’t know what it is yet.”

“The bard may have a point, Geralt.”

They turned their heads in unison to gaze at Yennefer. She had an expression that Jaskier couldn’t quite determine. It was almost like wistfulness, yet not. A longing, perhaps, not for Geralt himself, but for what he and Geralt had with each other: a steadfast love built on a foundation of friendship and self-sacrifice that was decades-strong.

All the magic and money in the world could not procure something so genuine, something that could only grow with significant care and time between two souls.

“I highly doubt cutting Jaskier open would bring you any joy, especially without numbing the pain,” Yennefer said, her face returning to its typical cool expression.

“No.” Geralt rubbed Jaskier’s rotund belly again. “It would not.”

“So it _is_ possible that the tree god will change Jaskier’s body in other ways to prepare him for the birth.” Yennefer gave Jaskier’s milk-streaked chest a pointed glance. “As proven by _that_.”

He let out a belabored sigh.

“Is this the part where you’re going to call me a fat cow?”

Yennefer’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. Geralt shook his head, then kissed Jaskier on the temple with quirked lips, then slid off the bed to walk to the writing desk.

“Do you want me to?” Yennefer drawled.

Jaskier pouted and exclaimed, “No!” Then he glanced down at his chest, sighed again, then gazed at the sorceress with the biggest puppy eyes he could muster. “But if you could do something about this, that would be nice.”

Her eyebrows stayed high on her forehead.

“Jaskier. After he’s born, your baby needs to feed.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yes, I _know_ that. But—” He gestured at his chest with both hands and pursed his lips at her. “Are you _sure_ you can’t do anything about this until he’s born? What am I going to do if I keep leaking all over my clothes?!”

Behind Yennefer, Geralt had picked up his tankard off the writing desk and was drinking from it.

“If it bothers you that much,” she said with an eloquent smirk, “you can always order Geralt to suckle on your teats.”

Geralt was halfway swallowing a big swig of ale, and at the sorceress’s wicked suggestion, said swig of ale couldn’t decide whether to go down his gullet or spray from his mouth. It finally chose the former, leaving the poor witcher hunched forward, coughing, and red-faced.

Yennefer twisted in her seat to look at Geralt and hooted with shameless laughter.

Jaskier covered his nose and mouth with both hands, and he was glad that neither Geralt or Yennefer were looking at him. He could feel how hot his whole face was, while his overactive imagination deluged his mind with the extremely vivid images of Geralt lying next to him on the bed, pursing those dark pink, full lips around his sensitive nipple—and sucking the fresh milk from him, satiating that burly, irresistible body’s witcher-sized hunger.

“Oh,” he breathed into his palms, his face heating up even more.

He squeezed his thighs together, so very glad for the fleece blankets that hid his hardening cock from sight.

Okay, he was wrong. There were most certainly _some_ things that could still surprise him.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

After Yennefer departed from the bedroom, it took ten minutes for Geralt’s self-restraint to snap, for Geralt to pounce on Jaskier on the bed and push his tunic up to his collarbones. His nipples had stopped leaking milk at that point, but the instant Geralt bent down and sucked on one, they dripped anew.

Jaskier writhed against the pile of pillows that propped them both up, gasping and whimpering. He grabbed Geralt’s copious hair with one hand. Scratched at Geralt’s back over his linen shirt with the other hand. He was stunned wordless by the unprecedented, visceral sensations: by the toe-curling tingling in his chest, the moist, warm rhythm of Geralt’s sucking lips, the gentle scrape of Geralt’s tongue.

He was so hard that all he had to do was reach down and stroke himself a few times at most to come.

But he didn’t want this to end.

He was still gasping for breath when Geralt sat back on the bed, his long, white hair a tousled mess barely tied in its half-up, half-down ponytail style. Geralt appeared as astonished as he felt.

He watched Geralt’s tongue lick across a supple lower lip wet with a yellowish-white liquid.

He gasped, scrunched his trembling hands in his ruched tunic at his collarbones, gasped again, then asked with a husky voice, “How do I taste?”

The pupils of Geralt’s eyes were so wide that their amber irises were slim rings that glimmered in the candlelight.

“Need more,” Geralt growled, “to tell.”

Jaskier was reduced to a whimpering, writhing mess once more after Geralt latched onto his other nipple. Geralt didn’t complain about him yanking at his hair or at his shirt. The more noises of pleasure he made, the harder Geralt sucked and licked. He had no idea if being suckled on was this gratifying for all mothers, or if he’d been blessed by the tree god in more ways than one, but it felt so good. It felt _so good_ —

Geralt reached down between his bare legs and grasped his cock. It took a mere three strokes for him to come into Geralt’s hand with a breathless cry, his head thrown back, convulsing once with bliss from crown to toes.

When he peeled open his eyes, he was sprawled in repletion on the pillows, and Geralt was gazing down at him with a tiny smile. He had to lick his own lips to be able to rasp, “How do I taste now?”

Geralt glided his tongue across his lower lip. Sucked in his lips and narrowed his eyes whose pupils were still blown open.

“Sweet,” Geralt murmured, eyes twinkling. “Like too many honey cakes.”

Jaskier dredged up the strength to seize a pillow and smack his cheeky witcher in the face with it.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

By the ninth and last month of pregnancy, Jaskier felt like he was the unholy meld of a dozen bloated cows. Geralt had to assist him in and out of bed every time. He was fatigued more often than not. He took naps everyday. Sometimes he found himself short of breath, gasping for air until he shifted into a position that permitted his lungs to expand again. He did not even want to _think_ about his bladder’s inability to do its job these days. The chamber pot had a permanent spot by his side of the bed.

He was also rather irritated by what Yennefer had called false labor pains. In hindsight, he might have experienced them without realizing it in previous months, for they felt like bad stomach cramps. To Geralt’s hand, these pains felt as if his rotund belly was tightening into a taut ball of muscle. They were uncomfortable. They were apparently a token intimation of the pain he was going to be subjected to during actual labor. He would choose them anytime over being sliced open with a blade, but it seemed he wasn’t going to be spared that.

On the upside, two physical improvements had occurred. One, Jaskier had never felt so sexually aroused so frequently in his life, and he had a handsome, muscle-bound witcher who was elated to fuck him senseless whenever he needed it. Two, the hair on his head grew even more luxuriant, and so did his eyelashes. Geralt could not stop staring at his face or carding those callused, thick fingers through his hair—which usually led to more lovemaking.

“I’ll have to trim it again soon,” Jaskier said, gazing into the oval mirror above the ornamented dressing table, brushing his own fingers through the dark, profuse locks. “Gods, even when I was a boy, it wasn’t this thick.”

Geralt embraced him from behind, nuzzling his hair behind his ear.

“Perhaps you should let it grow longer,” Geralt murmured. “Let me have something to pull on, while you’re riding my cock.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathed out, as his lusty witcher began kissing his nape and caressing his chest, his tingling nipples over his tunic. “That’s, uhm, that’s—something to—to consider, yes—”

“Bed,” Geralt growled into his ear. “Now.”

“Oh yes, bed, riding your cock,” he babbled, letting Geralt guide him there, trusting his witcher to never let him fall. “Very, very good.”

“Hmmn.”

They didn’t bother leaving their bedroom until the next evening, for dinner with Ciri and Yennefer. To Jaskier’s satisfaction, the sorceress and the princess were getting along very well, bonding over their mutual interest in magic—and healing each other. He wasn’t sure if either of them were aware of that, but he could see it in the way Yennefer readily accepted Ciri’s touch on her hand or forearm while they chatted at the dining table, in the way Ciri gazed at her with nary a jot of antipathy or fear. He could see it in the way Yennefer stroked Ciri’s hair without hesitance, in the way Ciri laughed with her, never at her.

He remembered how Yennefer had described her past self: a “hunchbacked, ugly thing”.

Had anyone gazed at the sorceress with maternal love then, the way she was gazing at a giggling Ciri now? Had anyone loved her then, and told her that she had worth even then?

He had lived long enough, experienced enough to know the answer. He and Geralt shared a common past trauma with Yennefer: the three of them had been abandoned by family. Yennefer wouldn’t be who she was if she had a family who’d loved her as she was. Geralt wouldn’t be who he was if his mother hadn’t jettisoned him at the foot of Kaer Morhen. As for _him_ —well, he wouldn’t be who he was if he’d continued to be Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, and chose to be at his scornful father’s beck and call, a fading lark in a gilded cage who would never know freedom or true love.

But here the three of them were with the young princess of Cintra, sitting close together in this grandiose dining room, feasting on succulent dishes that even kings could only dream of, bantering and laughing together. Here they were, a family that wasn’t bound by blood, but was as real as any that was.

Not being loved in the past didn’t mean that they weren’t worthy of love in the present, in the future.

They were all learning that, one way or another.

They were all learning to be better people today than they were yesterday.

And he would endure anything, _anything_ , to preserve this family for Geralt. To make Geralt happy.

“Jaskier, your hands are shaking.”

They were finishing a dessert of marzipan cake and strawberry tarts. It took him several seconds to realize Ciri was speaking to him. He blinked at her, then glanced down at his hands on the table top. They were indeed trembling—but until Ciri had pointed it out, he had been oblivious to it.

What the hell?

What was going on with him now?

He lifted them off the table, and the trembling worsened. He hated that he’d shattered the ebullient mood, inadvertent as it was, and caused everyone at the table to worry about him.

He clenched his hands into fists and said, “I’m fine. I feel absolutely fine.”

Then a cold shiver shook his body from neck to hips.

“Jaskier?”

He felt Geralt’s hands enclosing his, felt a more slender hand swipe away his hair and press on his forehead. He stared forward at Ciri who stared back with wide, anxious eyes. He shivered again, and he didn’t understand why he was shivering at all when he just had such an excellent meal.

_I’m fine, poppet. Really. Everything’s fine._

“Yennefer,” Ciri said, still staring at him. “His face has gone all white.”

“He’s burning up,” Yennefer said, but it wasn’t to him or to Ciri.

He tried to open his mouth, to speak, to reassure them that he was fine, just fine, he just needed to go back to bed and nap for a bit, that was all. He felt Geralt’s hands grasp his upper arms. He turned his head to the left to look at Geralt—and the room spun around him in a dizzying, nauseating way. He gasped. Squeezed his eyes shut and covered them with his hands.

“Jaskier?” Geralt said from thousands of miles away. “Jaskier!”

The whole world tilted to one side, toppling him off his seat into chilly, open air. He wasn’t afraid. He knew the wind, the sea would catch him. He knew Geralt would never let him fall.

He didn’t soar this time.

He drifted through the moonless, starless night, and he sought out those golden sparks of light that made Geralt smile.

He felt cold, and hot.

When his eyes fluttered open, he stared up into Yennefer’s wide, violet eyes.

“Jaskier. Look at me. Stay awake.”

“Ye-Yennefer? What—” His voice choked in his throat as a violent shudder rocked his body. “Am I—dying?”

“No one’s going to die, my love.”

Oh. He was reclined on the bed, propped up with pillows. Geralt was beside him, stroking his hair, his head, and gazing at him with so much concern. He tried to raise a hand to touch Geralt’s cheek, but his hand shook so hard.

“What’s happening?” His hand landed on his bulging belly, and his throat constricted. His face started to crumple. “Is my—is my baby dying—”

“ _No one_ is dying,” Yennefer said, gripping his quivering lower jaw with the fingers of her right hand. “Do you hear me, bard?”

“Please. Please, I don’t care what happens to me,” he rasped. “Please d-don’t let him die.”

The moonless, starless sky anointed his cheeks with fiery droplets. The rain submerged him for millennia. He drifted on and on through the darkness, and he sought out once more those golden sparks of light that made Geralt smile, made Geralt laugh and not foist a price on him for it.

When his eyes fluttered open a second time, he was swathed in fleece blankets up to the neck, and he was still cold. The bedroom was dim, lit by a few candles. Yennefer sat on the side of the bed next to his hip. Geralt was still beside him, caressing his cheek, murmuring his name.

Geralt: his relentless sea, his golden spark of light in the perpetual darkness.

He squirmed under the blankets—and winced at the pain that radiated from his lower belly, between his thighs.

“Hu-hurts,” he whimpered.

Yennefer pressed a hand to his belly over the blankets.

“Where?” Geralt asked. “Jaskier, where does it hurt?”

He squirmed again. Shivered from a fit of chills. Winced again, and whispered, “Belly. Between my legs.”

Gods, the pain was terrible, but it felt nothing like the false labor pains. It was more as if—as if things were _moving_ inside him. As if his organs were being rearranged by invisible hands.

His eyes widened. Then his eyelids flickered. He tried to slide his hand from under the blankets, to tell Geralt and Yennefer that this wasn’t labor, that this was something else entirely.

“Jaskier?” Geralt whispered. “Stay with me.”

The moonless, starless night pulled him back into its embrace that burned cold and hot in tandem. He floated through a rich blueness so inky that it was almost black. He felt a callused, large hand touch his forehead. Heard a deep, gravelly voice, one that he knew like no other, say, “The fever’s getting worse.”

He floated on, and on, and on.

He floated through a fortress of ice. Then he floated through a lake of fire. Then he soared, then plunged down through a cool sea that cleansed him of both.

He swam up to the placid surface.

When his eyes fluttered open for the third time, sunshine was cascading into the bedroom through the shut windows. He was still reclined on pillows and swathed in fleece blankets up to the neck, but he felt cozy and well-rested. He felt no pain. No shivers. He felt safe.

He was indeed safe, for Geralt was sitting on the chair in front of the writing desk, smiling softly down at something blue and tiny in his hands. His witcher was dressed in different clothes than the ones he’d last seen before—before he—

What happened to him?

“Geralt,” he whispered.

Geralt’s head snapped up, and Jaskier realized that the blue, tiny thing in Geralt’s gentle grasp was one of the blue socks he’d knitted for their baby boy. Their baby boy, who wriggled in his belly, safe and sound like he was.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, his whole face lighting up with relief.

Geralt placed the baby sock on the desk. Strode to the bed, then carefully crawled across it to sit beside him. He sighed when Geralt pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. It centered him, anchored him in reality.

“What happened to me?”

To his bewilderment, Geralt blushed and lowered his eyes. Cleared his throat, and said nothing.

“Geralt?”

“You were right.”

Jaskier blinked. “Right about what?”

Geralt looked him in the eye again, and murmured, “The tree god really did have a plan for the birth.”

“Oh?”

Jaskier shifted his arms. The blankets slipped down his chest to the swell of his belly. He was still wearing the same tunic that he had on at dinner, where he’d—ah, now he remembered. He’d been abruptly beset by a fever, and lost consciousness after a dizzy spell.

Then what?

Geralt helped him to sit straighter against the pile of pillows behind him.

“Geralt, please. Tell me what happened.”

Geralt lowered his eyes and cleared his throat once more.

“Don’t you—feel the change?”

As endearing as it looked, Jaskier was nonplussed by Geralt’s returning blush. What had happened to him that would make his grouchy, tough witcher go crimson in the face like that?

Jaskier made a face, and asked, “The change _where?_ ”

Geralt made eye contact with him again, with big puppy eyes that thoroughly melted his heart to goo.

“Between your legs,” Geralt mumbled.

Jaskier opened his mouth, then pressed his lips shut. He turned his head so he gazed forward. His brow creased as he pushed the blankets down to his thighs and then tugged his ankle-length tunic up with both hands. What by Melitele’s nipples did Geralt mean by the _change_ between his legs—

“Oh,” he blurted out, his eyes widening.

He had both hands on his groin, under his rucked-up tunic, and where he would always find his cock and bollocks, there was—nothing. Nothing except a soft, hairless mound.

“Uhm. I’m—missing certain very, very important organs.”

Geralt cleared his throat yet again, fidgeting with his fingers on his lap.

Jaskier slid his hands farther down between his thighs, and felt—slick folds of flesh. Folds that he’d seen and fondled and licked on countless women throughout his life. Folds that had girdled his cock while he’d fucked those women.

“ _Oh_ ,” he squeaked, and he blushed as intensely as Geralt did, squeezing his thighs together. Goodness, it felt really peculiar to do that and not have his bollocks in the way.

He blushed even more when he realized that Geralt must have _seen_ his new set of genitalia at some point to be so crimson in the face. He slapped his hands over his burning face.

“Oh gods, do I look _weird_ down there now?”

He felt Geralt’s hands gently pull away his hands from his face. Geralt stared at him until he turned his head and raised his eyes.

“Jaskier, I don’t care what’s changed,” Geralt murmured, caressing his smooth cheek from temple to jawline. “If it is a part of you, then it is a part I love.”

Well, there his sweet witcher went, sweeping him away with words and flipping his views all over again. His face was still red-hot, but he relaxed into the pillows. He sagged against Geralt when Geralt embraced him with both arms and held him tight to that broad, hirsute chest. He pressed his ear to it, and listened to that soothing, steady heartbeat within it.

“You don’t have to cut me open with a knife anymore,” he said, shutting his eyes.

Geralt kissed the crown of his head.

“That blasted tree god really did think of everything,” Geralt replied, and Jaskier could tell his lips were quirked up.

Jaskier buried his face in the dark grey curls of his witcher’s chest.

“Oh gods. Yennefer saw too, didn’t she?”

He could tell Geralt was now grimacing.

“She—we didn’t have a choice, Jaskier. You blacked out after you told us where you were feeling pain. We thought you’d gone into labor. Or something had gone wrong.” Geralt stroked the back of his head. “So she flipped off the blankets and yanked up your tunic, and—you’d already changed.”

“Oh,” Jaskier squeaked into Geralt’s chest.

“And she—said it was, uhm, only fair since you’d already seen her bare breasts in Rinde.”

Jaskier pushed himself back from Geralt, and opened his mouth in the beginnings of a rant about how he’d never requested to see them in the first place and that she’d intended to _rip off his penis_. He shut his mouth. Made several faces that contorted his features and sent a tremor of mirth through Geralt’s lips.

He settled on a shrug and a wry smile, and said, “Yeah, they are quite nice, aren’t they.”

Geralt opened his mouth. After a few seconds of silence, he shut it, frowning to himself. Then he shrugged as well, and replied, “Yeah.”

Jaskier snorted. Then he chuckled with immense relief, and Geralt smiled, rubbing circles on his back. Geralt didn’t have to slice him open anymore to get their baby out. He could actually push their baby out, now that he had the essential parts for the job.

Oh, it was going to _hurt_. He had no illusions about that. He might have never witnessed a birth, but he’d once heard a woman giving birth while he’d been passing through a village: her screams of agony had pierced his ears. He was probably going to end up screaming like she had. He would be lucky if that was the worst of it for him.

Big babies didn’t come out easy, did they?

Jaskier reclined on the pillows again, and shoved those thoughts into a box deep in the recesses of his mind. There was no point in fretting about that. The birth was going to happen regardless of whether it was excruciating or not.

As long as Geralt was there, as long as their baby was safe, he could endure anything.

Geralt rested on his side on the pillows next to him. At his quiet bidding, Geralt slipped under the blankets and tangled their legs. Hugged him close with one arm over his chest and the other arm under his head.

He nuzzled his face to Geralt’s. He rubbed his bare feet against Geralt’s. Against considerable feet that were—sheathed in something stretchy and thick.

“Geralt.”

“Hmmn?”

“Are you wearing the socks I knitted for you?”

Geralt, a witcher capable of regulating his body temperature, who had never needed the knitted, rainbow-striped socks on his feet in his whole life, muttered, “Shut up, Jaskier.”

For once, Jaskier obeyed that command, although it could be argued that his ear-to-ear smile of fulfillment spoke volumes upon volumes on his behalf anyway.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Nine months after the tree god of Caed Myrkvid transfigured him into a pregnant man, Jaskier’s water broke on a cool, serene evening. He was napping while propped up against a pile of pillows on the bed, drowsy after dinner, and he was clueless about what had occurred until Geralt gently shook him awake.

The dampness soaking his white nightgown at his crotch and between his thighs baffled him. The noticeable shrinking of his rotund belly startled him and promptly sent him into a state of hyperventilation.

“Jaskier.” Geralt was sitting on the side of the bed, speaking to him, grasping the sides of his head. “Jaskier, look at me. You’re fine. Our baby’s fine.”

He grabbed Geralt’s forearms and clung onto them. He held his breath, then gasped.

“But—my belly—”

“Your water broke.” Geralt stroked his cheeks, locking eyes with him. “Yennefer discussed this with us, remember? When that happens, it means the baby is coming.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. He tightened his hands on Geralt’s forearms, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Our baby is coming,” he rasped.

Geralt’s handsome face softened. “Yes, my love. Soon.”

Jaskier sucked in another sharp breath, then a calmer, longer one. The panic fled from his marrow. He loosened his grip, then caressed his witcher’s arms in silent apology. His lips curved up in a tremulous smile that steadied when Geralt also smiled, those large, amber eyes gleaming with anticipation like his were.

Their baby was coming. Their little, sweet baby boy was coming into the world soon.

Geralt kissed him on the forehead, then said, “I’ll go get Yennefer.”

At that moment, Jaskier experienced his first genuine contraction. It was like the bad stomach cramps he’d tolerated before, but worse. Much worse. His torso felt as if it was being wrung in the zealous hands of a giant, as if each finger of those hands were hot vices. The pain radiated through his lower back, starting as a seizing ache deep in his spine, then worsening as it diffused through his entire tautening belly.

“Oh, not fun,” he gritted out through a grimace, his eyes scrunched shut.

Geralt waited out the contraction with him, rubbing his upper arms while he pressed a hand to his belly and clutched at one of Geralt’s thighs with the other. He blew out a long breath when it passed.

“I’m getting Yennefer now,” Geralt growled, and kissed his forehead again.

He was relaxed against the pillows when Geralt returned to the bedroom with Yennefer minutes later. Her embroidered, short-sleeved dress stood out like a beacon in contrast to Geralt’s plain white shirt and black trousers.

“When was the previous contraction?” Yennefer asked, sitting on the side of the bed where Geralt had sat earlier.

Jaskier was stumped by the question. He’d assumed the contraction minutes ago was the first one, and he told her that. She shook her head at him.

“If your water’s broken, it means you’re already in labor. The early stage of it.”

She stood up and moved farther down the bed, and Jaskier’s face heated up, knowing what she intended to do. They’d also discussed this, and he understood that Yennefer examining him with her fingers was imperative—but it was mortifying for him anyway, having anyone else except Geralt touch him in such an intimate manner.

Geralt had climbed onto the bed to sit beside him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. He averted his head from Yennefer and hid his scorching face in Geralt’s chest. Oh, it felt really, _really_ peculiar to have fingers inside him in a space that hadn’t existed mere weeks ago. A portion of his mind was still grappling with the incredible fact that the tree god had transformed his nether regions to give him a birth canal.

To give birth to their baby boy.

Their little, sweet baby boy, who he’d been waiting for so long to finally cuddle and kiss and sing for with all his heart.

“Yennefer, what?”

Jaskier risked a glance at Yennefer, his face still warm. She’d removed her fingers. Her eyes were wide with pleasant surprise as she glanced at Geralt.

“He’s already dilated to five centimeters,” she murmured. Then she glanced at Jaskier, and said, “You must have been in early labor for hours already.”

Jaskier pressed his thighs close together and made a face. “I have?” He made another face. “Uhm. Well, I did feel some cramps throughout the day, but I thought they were because of—gas?” He grimaced. “From—all those fruit tarts I ate?”

Geralt lowered that head of long, white hair onto his shoulder. He could feel the soundless mirth that shook Geralt’s shoulders. Yennefer stared at him with narrowed, withering eyes.

“Really, Jaskier,” she muttered. “How many fruit tarts are we talking about?”

He’d stopped counting after the eleventh one, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell her that.

“Uhm.” He hunched his shoulders. “A lot?”

She rolled her eyes, then stood up from the bed. Geralt raised his head and gave him an affectionate nuzzle on his cheek.

“It’ll be hours yet before the birth itself, if things progress normally. Six to seven hours at most,” she said, and there was no mirth in her eyes or voice now. “But if they don’t—we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Jaskier nibbled on his lower lip. Six to seven hours wasn’t so long a time. It meant that his baby would be born by dawn. But what was he going to do with himself until then? Could he sleep the hours away?

“Oh,” he gasped, as another contraction struck. “Oh, _so_ not fun.”

This one was as painful as the previous one. It left him out of breath, clutching at the boulder of agony his belly had become. Geralt hugged him the whole time, rubbing at his arm, his back.

Yennefer gazed at him with pity from an otherwise impassive face.

“This is just the beginning of the active phase, bard. You’ll know when it’s time to push.”

He didn’t think it could get any worse than what he’d already experienced—but she was right. The next three hours became a strenuous ordeal unlike any he’d undergone before: the pain he’d felt when the djinn had attacked him in Rinde, or when the tree god had transformed him in Caed Myrkvid, or when the tree god had transformed him again weeks ago, was naught compared to the contractions that assailed his body every five minutes or so.

If Yennefer wasn’t goading him to walk around the bedroom with Geralt’s aid, he was squirming on the bed in Geralt’s arms, rocking his hips that felt as if they were being wrenched apart by the same giant hands wringing his torso. It hurt so much.

“Fuck,” he panted out, after a severe contraction. “Feels like—it’s tearing me apart.”

“You’re doing well,” Geralt murmured into his ear. “So well.”

Whenever the pain crested and became damn near unbearable, he would squeeze his eyes shut and grit his teeth. Swallow down whatever groan or whimper threatened to erupt from his mouth. Bury his face into Geralt’s chest, and clutch at Geralt’s arms or shoulders, and try not to fracture to pieces.

“It’s all right, Jaskier. Don’t hold back. You don’t have to, my love.”

He shook his head against Geralt’s chest, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. No, no, he couldn’t make a sound, or he would never stop. The agony was inescapable, inevitable. It hurt so damn much, but he couldn’t make a sound or everyone in the manor would hear him.

Geralt rocked him back and forth, massaging his belly and lower back.

From time to time, Yennefer fed him water from a glass.

The scent of lilac permeated the room, and then Yennefer said from a distance, “There. The spell will stop any sound from leaving this room.”

Geralt tightened the arm around Jaskier’s hunched shoulders. “Did you hear that?”

Jaskier didn’t reply, but clenched his hand around his witcher’s tense bicep. The next contraction stole his choice to stay silent. He writhed in Geralt’s arms, letting out an animalistic wail at the crushing-squeezing implosion of pain that overwhelmed his body.

But letting out his suffering through his voice did help.

It helped enough that when the contraction passed, he blinked tears from his eyes—and sang. He didn’t know which of his songs he warbled. He just knew that it helped to focus him, to convey him to the shore and out of the waves of suffering for a while. His voice stuttered on the next contraction, but he kept singing, and singing, and he found the strength to smile up at Geralt when he heard Geralt humming under his breath in accompaniment.

“See,” Geralt said, nuzzling his sweaty forehead. “I told you you’re doing well.”

Yennefer fed him some more water, then said deadpan, “You may have an actual future career as an entertainer.”

Somehow, he managed to chuckle. That was probably the closest thing to a compliment that he would ever receive from the sorceress about his singing.

But eventually, his singing petered out into harsh gasps and strident groans. The crucial breaks between contractions had diminished from minutes to seconds. If he’d felt as if he was being wrung by giant hands before, he now felt as if his body was being crushed like pulpy fruit on the jutting pike of a glass squeezer.

Embarrassment? Modesty? What were those things?

Pain had stripped Jaskier of them completely. Pain was all he knew.

He wasn’t even conscious of Yennefer examining him again until she’d already done it and was saying to Geralt, “He’s almost ready to push. Perhaps another half hour. Two hours at most.”

He peeled his eyes open. He was resting against Geralt’s solid torso, his head tucked under Geralt’s chin, sitting between his witcher’s spread legs. Geralt was hugging him across his chest. Rubbing his belly over his wrinkled nightgown. He lifted a shaking hand to Geralt’s forearm and clung to it.

He hurt. He hurt so much.

A half hour was as long as eternity to him now.

Yennefer was staring at him with those pitying eyes again, although they were kinder.

“Having second thoughts about becoming a mother?” Geralt asked her, not in a callous way.

Yennefer glanced at Geralt over Jaskier’s head with an impassive face.

“I’ve endured much worse than this, Geralt. But—” Yennefer glanced at Jaskier, and her eyes softened another notch. “But not for hours on end like this.”

Jaskier’s lips quivered in an attempt to smirk, to crack a joke, but yet another contraction struck him and robbed him of his words. The agony this time was so awful that his vision bubbled black and chills quaked through him. Something sour and viscous surged up his throat, into his mouth.

“Yennefer! The—”

He would have vomited all over himself if not for Yennefer’s swift actions of snatching the empty chamber pot from the floor and holding it under his head. Geralt held him steady while he retched up the contents of his stomach. Unlike the next contraction that hit, the retching was over in seconds.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, collapsing back on Geralt’s chest. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Shut up,” Geralt growled, but he could hear the quavering of his witcher’s voice. Hear the worry, the fear in it. “You have nothing to be sorry about, my love.”

He dragged in a shuddering breath. Shut his eyes when Geralt kissed him on the temple.

Time ceased to exist after that.

He felt Geralt’s fingers running through his sweat-matted hair. Heard Geralt murmuring praises and words of encouragement to him. Breathed in time with Geralt’s rising and falling chest, and no longer restrained his cries and whimpers as wave after wave of excruciating agony billowed over him.

Oh gods, it hurt, it fucking hurt so much, and it was getting worse unless he—pushed. Yes, he had to push. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop himself, he had to push, push— _push now!_

“Jaskier? Yennefer—is he—”

“Yes! Hold his leg up. Under the—yes, good.”

Someone was tugging up his nightgown, up to his tautening belly. Someone was folding his right leg up, gripping it under his knee, spreading his thighs wide. There was so much pressure between them, and the more he pushed, the worse it got. But he had to, he had to, because his body demanded it of him—because his baby was coming.

His little, sweet baby boy was coming to him at last.

“Yes, he’s coming,” Geralt said into his ear, gripping his left hand. “You’re doing so damn well. I’m so proud of you.”

Words, along with a mighty flood of energy, rushed back into Jaskier after a powerful push, and he babbled, “Fucking hell, I—I knew a woman who—who had _fifteen children_ , can you imagine that?!”

Geralt’s chest rumbled with a low laugh against his back. Yennefer, kneeling between his spread legs on the bed, smirked at him, her violet eyes crinkled and twinkling.

“Welcome back, bard. For a while there, I thought you’d retired from your noble profession and decided to commit to a life of blessed silence.”

Jaskier let out a huff of laughter, and he was amazed at himself for being capable of that while suffering so much pain.

“Blessed silence?” He let out another huff of laughter, leaning his head against Geralt’s, knowing Geralt was smiling. “Yeah, I _really_ don’t go in for that.”

He didn’t hear Yennefer’s response: the urge to push overpowered him again, and the escalating pain and pressure between his legs made him wince and groan at the end of the push.

“I will—never, ever make fun of—childbirth or motherhood—again!” He released another groan, then panted out, “I will write—an _epic ballad_ about this experience! And—dedicate it—to all mothers!”

“I think they’d rather just have you keep quiet and not scare their babies with your yodeling,” Yennefer said, straight-faced.

“Fuck off!” Jaskier exclaimed, and both Geralt and Yennefer cracked up into chuckles, relief rampant in their voices.

The relief didn’t last for long.

Jaskier was able to tolerate the pain for another two pushes, but on the third, the fiery-burning sensation between his legs seemed to expand and intensify until he was panting for air, crushing Geralt’s left hand in his in a white-knuckled grip, clawing at Geralt’s right arm, squirming against Geralt’s grip on his thigh. Yennefer was pushing his other leg aside, and he couldn’t see where her other hand was between his legs.

The pain grew and grew into a flaming agony—and then, it exploded like wildfire even as the pressure suddenly eased, ripping a shrill scream from his lungs. He didn’t know what was happening. He tried to close his shaking thighs, but Geralt and Yennefer wouldn’t allow him.

“Oh gods, oh—oh fuck—that really hurt,” he moaned, hot tears rolling down his contorted face. “That really, really hurt.”

Geralt held him even closer to that immovable, solid body, cradling him in its warmth. Geralt kissed his temple, his wet cheek.

“Look at you. Look how strong you are,” Geralt said with an emphatic voice into his ear. “Just a little more, my loyal lark, and our son will be here with us.”

He was in so much blinding agony, and he still didn’t know what was happening—but he believed his beloved witcher. Their baby was going to be here soon. Their baby boy they loved so much.

He gasped for air. Swallowed hard, and tasted salt on his lips.

He gave Geralt a jerky nod.

“Good,” Geralt growled. “Just one more big push.”

Another scream ripped out of him as he obeyed, but it was more the sonorous roar of a warrior on the battlefield, a victorious one. Geralt held their linked hands to his chest. There was more pain and pressure, more and more, and then—relief. Utter relief.

Jaskier sagged against Geralt, wheezing for air, blinking away black spots from his stinging eyes. He moaned in more relief when Geralt released his leg and he could draw his shaking thighs closer. He clutched at Geralt’s hands.

He could hear someone bawling at the top of their voice. Who was it?

“Jaskier, look,” Geralt said. “ _Look_.”

He obeyed his witcher again, and he stared past his now deflated belly, at Yennefer who still knelt between his legs. Her eyes were crinkled and glistening. She was smiling.

In her blood-spattered hands, crying and flailing chubby arms, was a baby. A baby boy, with his birth cord still attached to his navel.

Even with all the blood and fluids slathering him, his gossamer hair shone in the candlelight.

Every white strand of it.

Jaskier’s eyes instantly brimmed with fresh tears even as an ecstatic smile spread across his face. Whatever pain he was feeling seeped away from his enervated body, replaced with a joy so exquisite that he felt as if he was floating in the air, as if he was bursting with myriads of melodious songs.

“Give him to me,” he rasped, stretching his trembling arms out for his newborn son. His and Geralt’s. _His and Geralt’s._ “Please. Give him to me.”

Still smiling, Yennefer passed their crying baby over into the cradle of his arms. Their baby had felt enormous while being pushed out of his body. But here in his arms, he was—so small. So fragile. So precious.

He didn’t care that his tears spilled down his aching, grinning face, as long as he could see and memorize every inch of their little, sweet baby boy. He’d already fallen in love with their baby months ago, long before he knew what their son looked like, but how could he not fall in love again at the sight of Geralt’s hair on that little head? At the sight of that little nose that was a combination of his and Geralt’s? That little, satiny mouth that belted out wails with such vigor? Those teeny fingers and toes that wiggled in the air?

“Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured, caressing their baby’s round, soft cheeks with the back of his fingers. “We’re so happy you’re here. We love you so much.”

Their baby’s bawling tapered off into a calm hush. Their baby’s eyes were still shut, but that little head turned towards him, listening to his voice.

Geralt’s arms embraced them both from behind, helping Jaskier to support their baby boy’s weight. He turned his head to look at Geralt. Geralt gazed back at him with glistening, reddened eyes, with a face bright with a joy identical to his.

“Thank you,” Geralt rasped into his cheek.

A puff of happy laughter escaped his mouth. He nuzzled Geralt’s face, and murmured, “Why are you thanking me? He wouldn’t be here without you.”

“And he wouldn’t be here without you,” Geralt murmured, tightening his arms around them.

Jaskier wanted to kiss Geralt’s lips, but missed and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth instead. He gazed down at their quiet baby—and they gasped in unison when their baby’s large eyes fluttered open to reveal irises that were a blend of Jaskier’s blue and Geralt’s amber. He could understand why Geralt had seen blue eyes in that vision the tree god had shown him: the amber ringed the pupils, then merged with the dominating blue.

Their son’s eyes were as beautiful as his witcher father’s eyes.

“Geralt,” Yennefer said.

Jaskier continued to gaze down at their baby boy who gazed back at him. How could he not fall in love again, when those eyes gazed at him with such innocence, such captivation?

“Geralt,” he whispered, “I’m feeling cold.”

His hands and feet were going numb. His pulse was quickening, and he didn’t know why. He supposed his exhaustion was normal, considering what he’d just gone through, but—the room was beginning to spin around him.

Geralt didn’t respond to him. Instead, Geralt slid out from behind him to kneel on the bed next to him, propping him up with an arm behind his back. Geralt was staring down at the bed where Yennefer knelt with stark eyes.

Jaskier held their baby boy tighter to his chest with both arms, then glanced down at the bed as well, between his legs.

Oh. That was—a great deal of blood gushing out of him and soaking the sheets.

Was someone supposed to bleed that much after giving birth?

“ _Geralt_ ,” Yennefer said again, her eyes wide, her smile wiped away from her pale face.

Oh.

Was he truly dying now?

Their little, sweet baby boy was crying again. He made shushing noises, tried to caress those soft cheeks and kiss away those precious tears—but he couldn’t move. The room was spinning so much. Geralt caught him before he listed sideways. Cradled him and their baby against that broad chest, stroking his face and hair, saying his name over and over.

“Jaskier. Stay awake. Stay with me.”

Their poor baby boy was crying so hard on his chest. He tried to hug him, to touch that little, warm head one last time, and tell him everything that he felt for him.

_I’m sorry. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. I love you. I will always love you._

He gazed up into Geralt’s frantic, wide eyes. Pressed a shaking hand to Geralt’s cheek, and tried to also tell his beloved witcher—his monster-slaying champion, his best friend, his muse, the truest love of his life—everything that he felt for him.

_I love you. I’m sorry. I love you so much, my white wolf. I will never love any other like I love you. I will always love you, even in the afterlife, and whatever may come after it._

He couldn’t hear what Geralt was saying anymore, or hear their baby’s bawling. He could only hear the rustle of leaves on gnarled branches so high up that they touched the stars. He could only feel a cool breeze across his face, and smell nectar and loam.

His lips parted, but no words drifted from them.

Even now, his heart refused to say goodbye to Geralt.

_I love you, Geralt of Rivia. I wish I could be with you for all of your life, and beyond._

He sucked in one last breath. His hand slipped from Geralt’s wet cheek. His lungs emptied and went cold.

His eyes fluttered shut.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Jaskier was drifting through the moonless, starless night once more. He sought out those golden sparks of light that made Geralt smile, made Geralt laugh, and brightened his whole face, his whole being.

He felt cold, then hot, then cold again.

He felt the bristles of numerous leaves brush his face. He smelled nectar and loam again.

He heard the sun cry, and he cried with it. He felt the sun curl up on his chest and quieten. It rested its round, soft cheek on his smooth skin. He felt the steady beat of its tiny heart next to his, and remembered feeling that beat in his belly.

The bed he was laid on was the softest bed, like the green moss shrouding the root of an ancient oak tree.

_Jaskier._

The moonless, starless sky anointed his cheeks with fiery droplets, but those droplets didn’t come from his eyes. They came from another pair of eyes. A pair that glimmered in the shadows like golden sparks of light.

_Come back to me, Jaskier._

The rain lashed down, and it grew and grew into a sea, and he drifted in it for millennia. The sea was warm. The sea was boundless. The sea enfolded him in brawny arms, and kissed him on the temple, and whispered into his ear.

_Come back to me, my loyal lark, half of my soul._

_I’ve only just found you._

Geralt: his relentless sea, his golden spark of light in the perpetual darkness, the other half of his soul.

The moonless, starless night wrested him back into its cage that scalded cold and hot in tandem. He tossed and turned in an abject blueness so inky that it was blacker than black. He felt a callused, large hand press on his forehead, then caress his cheek. Heard a deep, gravelly voice, one that he knew like no other, say, “The fever’s broken.”

He plummeted from the bottom of the cage.

He dove into the cool sea that cleansed the fog from his mind, the aches from his body.

He swam up to the placid surface, beckoned by that golden light, that voice he knew like no other.

When his eyes fluttered open, sunshine was cascading into the bedroom through the open windows, gilding the grand armoire and the tapestries decorating the walls. He was reclined on pillows and swathed in fleece blankets up to the chin. He was cozy but also feeble to the marrow. He felt no pain, no shivers. He felt safe.

He was indeed utterly safe, for Geralt was sitting against the headboard a forearm’s length away from him, cuddling their little, sweet baby boy to a bare chest. Their baby was swaddled in one of the envelope blankets he’d knitted, a sapphire blue one with yellow stripes.

A chubby, tiny hand batted at the wolf medallion that hung from Geralt’s neck.

“It’s made of silver,” Geralt murmured, gazing down at their baby with crinkled, gleaming eyes, with lips quirked up in a doting smile. “It tells others that I am from the School of the Wolf of Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt gripped the chain of the necklace so the medallion hung from his fingertips. His smile widened when their baby touched the medallion again and gurgled.

“Yes, it vibrates whenever magic is present.” Geralt dipped his chin to look at the medallion, then said, “My mentor, Vesemir, bestowed this upon me after I passed the Trial of the Grasses.” Their baby gurgled again, and he said, “Where’s Vesemir, you ask? Well, he still lives in Kaer Morhen, lurking around the place like a—”

Geralt’s smile widened even more, into a brilliant, heart-aching thing that made Jaskier’s chest throb in the best way.

“Like a big, old, unbearably crotchety loner.” Geralt chuckled, releasing the chain of his medallion to caress their baby’s white-haired head. “I suppose I inherited more than just his knowledge from him.”

Jaskier parted his dry lips, and rasped, “Don’t forget cantankerous.”

Geralt swiveled his head to glance at him with wide eyes, his smile faltering. When their eyes locked, when Geralt saw that he was awake, that brilliant, heart-aching thing returned to his witcher’s full lips, crinkling those amber eyes even more with jubilation.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and it was a single word, a single name that truly did encompass Geralt’s whole world restored.

Geralt slid across the narrow space between them. Jaskier sighed when Geralt pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, his cheek. The kisses centered him, anchored him in reality, and reminded his body that he was alive. That he survived.

“What happened to me?”

“You hemorrhaged. Went into shock.” Geralt’s lips thinned into a grim line. “You’d torn badly. But Yennefer and I managed to stop the bleeding in time.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinked like an owl. “I almost did die.”

Geralt shut his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them, and rasped, “Yes. You almost did. You were unconscious for two days. When the fever struck, I thought I was still going to—to lose you. But it was the same sort of fever you had when your body changed.”

“Changed?”

Without waiting for an answer, Jaskier pushed down the blankets to his thighs. He wasn’t in the white nightgown anymore. Someone had bathed him and dressed him in a long, navy blue dressing gown, and its vibrant color made his skin appear even paler. He opened its front down to the groin.

He couldn’t help exhaling in relief when he saw that his body had been returned to its original state before he’d become pregnant, although his body hair was still missing. It was probably going to grow back in time, like Geralt had mentioned. His genitals looked the same, and so did his flat belly—apart from the pale stretch marks emblazoned on it.

He gasped and traced them with his fingertips, recalling Geralt’s tongue on them. This was the first time he’d seen them. They almost looked like claw marks, like scars earned in ferocious battle. The tree god’s magic hadn’t removed them—and he was so thankful for that. He really was.

Geralt was right: they were never ugly. They were lovely, for they were evidence that he had been pregnant at all. That _he_ had been blessed to carry Geralt’s child, and given birth to that child.

Geralt’s soft smile was also a knowing one.

“Ciri and Yennefer have visited a few times. Ciri was very worried about you, but we told her that you’re going to be fine,” Geralt said. “How do you feel?”

“Horrible. Like I’ve been flattened under an anvil,” Jaskier replied, but he was also smiling softly, for Geralt of Rivia was head over heels in unreserved love with him, and their little, sweet baby boy was here with them.

Their little, sweet baby boy, who was gazing at him and reaching for him with those chubby, tiny hands.

Geralt assisted him to sit straighter against the pillows. He folded his dressing gown back over his body up to the sternum. He thought that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed as much by emotions this time, when Geralt carefully laid their baby lengthwise in his waiting arms. He was proven wrong within seconds: his eyes immediately welled up hot and wet, his throat prickled, and his nose congested high up in his skull. He had to bite his lower lip hard to stop it from quivering.

With the blood and fluids bathed away, their baby boy’s gossamer, white hair was all the more eye-catching, curling in tufts on a round head. His amber-and-blue eyes were as splendid to behold as they had been when they’d opened for the very first time. They stared raptly up at Jaskier, as if he was the most riveting thing their possessor had ever seen, as if he was their possessor’s entire world. Those chubby, tiny hands clenched and unclenched in the air at him.

Some sort of instinct compelled him to hold their baby up to his breast, flat as it was. Pink, pliant lips opened wide and swiftly latched onto his nipple. That deep, tingling sensation kicked in within his chest—and then their baby was suckling eagerly, pressing a tiny, warm hand on his chest.

Geralt wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and tucked the other under his arm to help bear their baby’s weight. Geralt pressed their temples together while they gazed down at their contented, gorging baby.

“Yennefer said that newborns can go without milk for days after birth,” Geralt murmured, before any guilt could take root in Jaskier. “He’s absolutely fine. Healthy as can be.”

He blinked the tears out of his eyes. He rubbed his temple against Geralt’s in response. He traced their baby boy’s gray eyebrows with his fingertip. Traced the shape of that cute, little nose, the jovial curve of those pink lips while they suckled on with gentle tugs. Caressed that round, soft cheek with the back of his fingers.

Many minutes later, their baby slid his mouth away and pressed that plump cheek on his chest with a sigh. Those splendid eyes fluttered shut in tranquil slumber.

On some level, he knew that all loving mothers must think the same about their own babies—but he truly did believe that his baby was the most beautiful and perfect baby to ever exist. So perfect in every way: the living embodiment of the very best of him and Geralt.

Jaskier traced their baby’s long eyelashes with a fingertip.

“We could head to the coast,” he murmured. “When he’s a little older, when the war’s over. Get away for a while.” His lips quirked up in a bittersweet smile. “That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

“Hmmn.”

Geralt’s arm tightened around his shoulders. Geralt pressed their cheeks together, and Jaskier’s smile eased into a poignant one.

“Life is too short. Too precious.” He brushed the white tufts on their baby son’s head. “Do what pleases you, while you can.”

Geralt moved his head away from Jaskier’s. Jaskier turned his head, and found Geralt staring at him with those heavy-lidded, warm eyes that he would never, ever tire of, no matter how many decades of their life together passed.

Still smiling, he murmured, “What are you up to, my darling witcher?”

“Working out what pleases me,” Geralt replied with that deep, gravelly voice. “What is precious to me.”

Jaskier swallowed down a lump in his throat, his heart swelling bright and hot in his chest.

“And have you? Worked that out?”

The devastating kiss Geralt drew him into was both a whisper and a roar. He smiled into it, hearing his beloved witcher’s _yes, yes, yes_ in every touch of their lips and tongues, in all the infinitesimal places where their skin touched, the infinite places where their souls slotted together—never to be parted again.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like only yesterday that I wrote the very first line of the story. And yet, here we are, at the end of it. 🥂 Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey, and for all your kind and wonderful comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions! 💕💕💕 I appreciate every single one!
> 
> If you haven't already guessed, this story wasn't just my fix-it story for episode 1x06, but for the entire Netflix show in regards to the Geraskier relationship. I love that Geralt and Jaskier have a canonical friendship that's close, genuine, and decades-long in the books and games. So, as contradictory as it sounds, I was both disappointed and yet not by how the Geraskier relationship unfolded on the Netflix show. They didn't have the same friendship like in the books and games, but to me, there was an obvious bond that grew between Geralt and Jaskier anyway despite how outwardly hostile Geralt often was towards Jaskier. Hey, you gotta admit, they're hilarious when they're bantering and bickering and--well, they're just lovely to watch whenever they're together on-screen. And come on, _Geralt let Jaskier rub chamomile oil all over his nude body, including his lovely bottom_. That's _canon_ , people!
> 
> It was all good, until that awful scene on the mountain in episode 1x06. I still can't get over what an arsehole Geralt had been towards Jaskier in that scene. It was even worse that you can tell the writers did it mostly as a convenient, and lazy, way of getting rid of Jaskier for the remaining episodes. 😠 If the writers decide to brush things off in season 2 with Jaskier just making an offhand comment about Geralt's behavior and then acting as if everything's fine again ... yeah, I _really_ would not go in for that. Jaskier deserves so much better--which is why _The Best of You and Me_ is canon-divergent after episode 5 and features the strong, decades-long Geraskier relationship from the books and games instead. Also, I am a complete sap, and a complete sucker for old friends falling in love and being happy together ever after.
> 
> Although the main story is complete, I have multiple codas already plotted out. Most of them will be from Geralt's point of view. Here's a taste of what's coming up next:
> 
> \- Geralt and Yennefer save Jaskier after he gives birth.  
> \- Geralt and Jaskier take care of their baby boy in the following six months, and visit an ancient friend in Caed Myrkvid.  
> \- Geralt and Jaskier go to the coast with their baby.  
> \- Geralt has a fit of self-loathing after being mistreated by ungrateful villagers, and Jaskier finds a novel way to help Geralt deal with it.  
> \- After slaying some monsters together, Geralt tells Eskel about his baby son.


	11. Coda #1: Little Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this coda: Geralt and Yennefer rush to save Jaskier from bleeding to death after he gives birth.
> 
> Oh yeah, we gonna have some major Geralt feels here, people.
> 
> Soundtrack: [Black Hawk Down - Still (Reprise)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U80AEp-o7AQ)
> 
> And here's Geralt carrying Jaskier around without so much as a huff or puff:  
> 

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heartbeat thundering in the lean chest that rattled against his. It was his sole consolation, his sole thread to sanity, for it meant that Jaskier was still alive. Jaskier’s eyes stayed shut, no matter how many times Geralt rasped his name or stroked his cold cheek. Jaskier was a blanched, boneless doll in his arms, bleeding, bleeding, and bleeding.

There was nothing he could do to stop it.

There was nothing he could do.

Their newborn baby boy was crying his tiny lungs out between their bodies. Crying for himself. Crying for Geralt who couldn’t afford to do the same, not now, not yet.

“Geralt! I’m going to try healing the tear.”

Yennefer was pressing wads of cloths to Jaskier’s crotch. They were once white in color, but were now steeped in bright red. Between Jaskier’s bare, sprawled legs, a lake that was as bright red creeped across the bed sheets, conquering each inch with every erratic beat of Jaskier’s heart. The afterbirth, pushed out by the last contractions, was a gruesome oblation offered upon that bright red lake.

Geralt felt his wolf medallion vibrate in reaction to Yennefer using her scant reserves of magic. The bed was a war zone. He and Yennefer were fighting an enemy they couldn’t see, an enemy who was his friend whenever he had to kill for coin or gold.

“Fuck off,” Geralt snarled, clutching Jaskier and their crying baby close to his chest. “He’s not yours to take. He’s mine. They’re mine.”

Death didn’t respond to him. Death never did, unless it was in the cleaving of flesh under his sword, or the spurting of blood from fatal wounds, or the final shrieks from the gaping mouths of his prey. Death never showed its own face, or spoke with its own voice. It was a coward that all mortals still feared at the end of their lives.

Had it shown itself when Jaskier had thrown back that head of dark, thick hair on his shoulder and let out that heart-wrenching scream of agony? Or had it been when Jaskier’s voice flowed away with his blood? When Jaskier could only speak to him with those large, blue eyes that always saw him, with those callused, slender fingers that touched his face and reminded him that he was a man, not a monster?

Jaskier’s eyes were so blue. Blue like the cloudless sky above the sea. Blue like the sea in the shallows, where his feet met the earth and the water, and his fingers could graze heaven if he simply dared to reach past the sky for it.

Blue, like the potion in a dark amber bottle in Geralt’s leather satchel.

“Jaskier,” he whispered, his eyes widening, his heart quickening in time with Jaskier’s. “Stay with me, my love. Sixty years. We said sixty years.”

Jaskier’s eyes stayed shut. Their long, luxuriant lashes fanned pallid cheeks. Jaskier’s colorless lips didn’t move. Jaskier’s heart still thundered, and thundered, and that meant Jaskier was still alive. That meant Geralt still had the chance to save him.

Geralt pressed a swift kiss to Jaskier’s cold, smooth forehead. Laid his unconscious mate and their crying baby down on the bed, and told himself that the corpse-like limpness of Jaskier’s body, the lifeless lolling of that precious head with its precious mind, were temporary.

He brushed his trembling hand down their baby boy’s heaving back, then tugged a fold of Jaskier’s nightgown over their baby’s frail body.

The potion. He had to get the potion.

He scrambled off the bed and threw himself down on the floor in front of the writing desk. His leather satchel was propped up against the desk’s left front leg. He seized it and flipped it open. Rifled through it with both hands, breathing hard, until his fingers found what he needed.

The dark amber bottle was half full.

That was enough. More than enough for what Jaskier so desperately needed.

He hurtled back to the bed with it. Clambered onto the bed to Jaskier—and almost fell flat on his face when Yennefer grabbed his right wrist and yanked his arm towards her.

“Geralt, what the fuck are you doing?!”

He clenched his right hand around the dark amber bottle. He glared at her with wide, unblinking eyes, and she glared back, undaunted. There were dark purplish shadows under her eyes again.

She tightened her blood-spattered fingers around his wrist, and growled, “Geralt, he’s _human_.”

Of course he knew that. Of course he knew Jaskier was human, and not _enhanced_ like he and Yennefer were. But if he didn’t try, if he didn’t at least _try_ to save Jaskier with one of his potions—

“He’s _dying_ ,” he snarled at her, and he didn’t give a fuck that Death was in the room hovering over them, hearing him say those words. He didn’t give a fuck that she could see the hot glistening of his eyes that blurred his vision at its edges.

Her glare waned into a heavy-lidded look of despair, of understanding. They both knew she didn’t have enough magic or time to heal Jaskier before he hemorrhaged to death. Her noble attempt to help was merely delaying the inevitable.

Inevitable—unless the gods, or at least one particular god, heard Geralt’s entreaty once more.

Yennefer released his wrist.

He scrabbled up the bed and sat on his heels beside Jaskier’s head. Jaskier laid exactly where he’d left him: on his back, his right arm bent outward, his left arm bent with its forearm resting on a deflated belly, cradling their prone baby boy in its crook. Their baby was no longer crying.

Those beautiful, amber-and-blue eyes gazed up at him. They spoke to him, like Jaskier’s eyes spoke to him with an abundance of feelings and words, with naught but a look.

He sucked in a shuddering breath. He grasped Jaskier’s forehead with his left hand and tilted Jaskier’s head back on the bed. He gently pushed his fingers between Jaskier’s colorless lips. Pushed down on Jaskier’s lower teeth until his mouth was open and his tongue was exposed.

One drop.

One drop was a witcher’s dose of this potent potion.

What was one drop going to do to Jaskier?

Geralt’s hands trembled as they uncapped the dark amber bottle. He felt their baby boy staring up at him, at his face. He couldn’t bear to reciprocate the innocent, wide-eyed gaze. Couldn’t bear to look into those eyes that were a meld of his and Jaskier’s, knowing he was about to either save their son’s daddy—or murder him.

The bottle’s acutely tapered neck ensured that just one globule of the potion could be dripped out at a time. Geralt tipped the bottle with its minuscule orifice pointed down into Jaskier’s mouth. Gradually, a droplet of the vivid blue liquid emerged from the orifice.

The droplet plummeted onto Jaskier’s tongue without a sound.

Geralt’s breath hitched in his lungs.

He gently pushed Jaskier’s lower jaw up and closed his mouth. He quickly recapped the bottle. Clenched his hands around it, and ignored Yennefer’s stare on his face. Ignored the trembling in his hands, his chest, that wouldn’t go away.

He could still hear Jaskier’s grating breaths, hear Jaskier’s rapid heartbeat.

He could hear it slowing down, and down.

He breathed in time with Jaskier. His chest rose and fell with Jaskier’s, and his own heart slowed down, and down.

His medallion was vibrating once more.

If he shut his eyes, if he allowed his worst fears to pervade his body and mind, he would feel Death hovering over him, breathing ice-cold fire across his nape. Death was a coward and a monster. Death was immeasurable, inescapable, inevitable—and even Geralt feared it, for one day, it would take away from him the ones he loved most.

But not today.

Geralt forced his lungs to expand with air. He turned his head to look at Yennefer, and watched her pull away the bloody cloths from Jaskier’s crotch. Watched her bleak expression fade, and her shoulders slump in relief.

“Geralt,” she said, raising her head to look at him with crinkled, violet eyes, her plump lips curling up. “The bleeding’s almost stopped.”

Death slinked away into the shadows.

Geralt’s medallion continued to vibrate.

Jaskier’s chest continued to rise and fall, and their alert, quiet baby boy with it. Jaskier’s heart pulsated with a steady beat. Jaskier’s eyes were still shut, still weighed down by dark shadows. But his appealing face was no longer colorless: the lightest rose was being restored to his cheeks, to his parted lips.

Geralt swallowed hard, then rasped, “Thank you, Yennefer.”

“For what?”

He frowned at her, at her frown of confusion. He enclosed his left hand around his vibrating medallion.

“Aren’t you—using your magic to help?”

His own confusion burgeoned at her headshake.

“I managed to heal the tear. But I couldn’t do anything about the severe internal bleeding.” She glanced at the dark amber bottle in his right hand. “So the potion is safe for human consumption, then?”

It was his turn to shake his head, and her turn to become even more confused. She glanced at his fisted left hand. Then her eyebrows shot up her forehead.

“Your medallion. It’s sensing some other magic?”

At his nod, she sat up and stared at Jaskier’s wan face. At the newborn baby curled up on Jaskier’s chest. She pressed the wads of bloody cloth back onto Jaskier’s crotch with a mild frown.

“The tree god’s magic, probably,” she murmured.

Geralt said nothing. He recalled his midnight stroll through the misty woods of Caed Myrkvid so many months ago: his medallion hadn’t vibrated when he’d encountered the tree god. His medallion hadn’t vibrated either when Jaskier was afflicted by the sudden magical fever in the dining room weeks ago.

Why would it vibrate now, if it was the tree god’s magic at work again?

Something else was at work here. Some other source of power that they couldn’t see, or sense.

He let go of his medallion and reached down to touch his baby boy’s head, uncaring of the blood and fluids still smeared all over it. He stroked its warm curvature. Brushed his fingers across its silky tufts of hair that was as white as his.

“Your daddy is going to be okay,” he whispered. “He is.”

His throbbing heart rocketed up into his throat when his son’s amber-and-blue eyes locked with his again. When those rosy, round cheeks bunched up, and those little, pink lips stretched into their very first smile. A smile that was for him.

Oh, so this was what it felt like to fall in love at first sight, and fall in love again and again, mere minutes after meeting someone for the first time.

It was no wonder that Jaskier never wanted to leave him after their very first meeting in that tavern in Posada. No wonder, that a witcher’s punch to the belly was no more than a fleeting jab in the light of such transcendent emotion.

“I’m summoning the servants to change the bed,” Yennefer said. “Do you want them to bathe—”

“No,” Geralt growled, his head snapping up towards her. “No, I will bathe Jaskier myself.”

No one was to touch Jaskier—his best friend, his brother-in-arms, his songbird, his _mate_ —except him.

“All right.” She glanced at his baby boy again, with softer eyes. “I’ve heard healers say that it’s best not to bathe the baby until a day has passed.”

He nodded, then waited until she looked him in the eye again, and said, “Please watch over him while I take care of Jaskier.”

He wouldn’t have blamed her for mocking his overly formal tone then. He was not known for his courtesy or decorum, and as someone who’d once been one of his rare lovers, she was familiar with his habits and manners. She had been the very person to say to his face that “in the land of the uncouth, he would be king”.

In another time where Jaskier wasn’t teetering on the fine line between life and death, she might have launched a similar insult at him. Might have raised her eyebrows, and twisted her lips in a wry smile, and asked him whether he was a doppler and where the real Geralt of Rivia was.

She gazed at him with the same soft eyes she had for his baby son.

“Of course, Geralt,” she murmured, as if it was an honor to do what he’d requested.

In that moment, he felt a tide of love for her. It wasn’t the same sort of love he’d felt for her when they’d been lovers, but it was something far more humbling, far more genuine. It wasn’t permanently poisoned by a djinn’s embroilment. It was something he’d earned with care, with time.

He had lost a resentful lover—but gained a true friend.

And he was grateful for it.

Yennefer scooped up his baby boy from Jaskier’s chest with the utmost attentiveness. His baby didn’t cry at the detachment, and stared up at the sorceress with curious eyes while she bundled him up in a clean towel at Jaskier’s side. It was after Yennefer gathered the afterbirth from between Jaskier’s legs that Geralt slid his arms under Jaskier’s shoulders and thighs.

It shouldn’t have astounded him that Jaskier was so much lighter to carry now. Their newborn baby boy might appear small in their arms, but in Geralt’s estimation, he was a good eight to nine pounds in weight. Any bigger, and Geralt might have had to resort to cutting Jaskier’s belly anyway: he’d heard accounts of big babies trapped behind their mothers’ pubic bone, and needing surgery to be removed.

Many of these mothers didn’t survive the surgery, or died from infection later.

Despite what had occurred tonight, Jaskier was incredibly fortunate, for he had a powerful sorceress to heal his external wound—and an even more powerful, mysterious magic healing the rest of him in simultaneity with the drop of witcher potion.

Geralt’s medallion had stopped vibrating shortly before he’d lifted Jaskier in his arms. He didn’t know what that meant.

In the bathroom, he laid Jaskier down on the thick rug next to the copper bathtub. He didn’t dare to risk putting Jaskier in the bathtub itself, since it magically filled with water, and Jaskier was still bleeding although it was a mere trickle now. He prepared clean towels then stripped off Jaskier’s blood-soaked nightgown while the bathtub filled.

He could hear the servants enter the bedroom and get to quick work changing the sheets and the stuffing of the bed while Yennefer instructed them. He heard no crying from his baby boy.

Jaskier remained a blanched, boneless doll in his arms. He gently wiped Jaskier’s face and neck with a towel saturated with hot water from the bathtub. Then he wiped Jaskier’s torso, front and back, then his arms. He was especially gentle with the deflated belly, worried that pressing on it might cause more bleeding.

His hands began to tremble again as he wiped away the bright blood from Jaskier’s lower body with multiple saturated towels. From between Jaskier’s legs, from Jaskier’s thighs. It was everywhere. It coated Jaskier’s pale skin all the way down to the knees. There was only so much blood a man could afford to lose.

Geralt could hear the servants in the bedroom. He could hear Yennefer snapping at one of them. He could hear his baby boy’s heartbeat, so languid yet steady. It was not a human’s heartbeat. It was a heartbeat just like his.

Alone in the bathroom with Jaskier, out of everyone else’s earshot, he allowed himself to clutch Jaskier’s limp body to his quivering one with both arms for a few seconds. To tuck Jaskier’s head under his chin. To bury his face in dark, thick hair, and release one sob into it. Just one.

_I love you, Jaskier. Stay with me. Don’t leave me._

_Don’t leave me again, my loyal lark._

Jaskier still needed him. Their baby son still needed him.

He was as solid as rock again as he wrapped Jaskier in a clean, large towel, making sure that the folded towel against his crotch didn’t slip. When he carried Jaskier back into the bedroom, the servants were gone, and the bed was clean and stuffed with fresh down and wool. Yennefer sat at the foot of the bed, cuddling his baby in a knitted blanket. The afterbirth was in a big bowl next to her on the bed. The birth cord was still attached to it, to his baby. Next to the bowl was a small knife.

She had waited for him to cut the birth cord.

He glanced at her with warm eyes and lips quirked up in an appreciative smile. His smile lingered when he saw the long, navy blue dressing gown already spread out on the bed below a pillow. He laid Jaskier on it, then removed the towel and tucked him into the dressing gown. He ignored his perturbation at his beloved mate’s unnatural silence and muscle laxness.

He missed Jaskier’s mellifluous voice. He missed Jaskier’s tender touch, and roguish smile, and unadulterated affection.

He kissed Jaskier on a smooth forehead that was warmer.

After tucking the fleece blankets around Jaskier, Geralt walked to the foot of the bed and knelt in front of Yennefer. She had opened up the knitted blanket to expose his baby’s belly. The birth cord was already tied with twine in two places, and it was grey-white in color. It no longer pulsed.

Geralt tamped down his regret that Jaskier couldn’t witness the cutting of the cord. They hadn’t discussed that, but it might have been an event Jaskier wanted to see, to remember. He would remember it for the both of them.

The birth cord was surprisingly tough, like gristle in meat. It took him two attempts to slice through the cord. No blood leaked from either end.

“I’ll deal with the afterbirth,” Yennefer said.

His baby boy was starting to cry again, his endearing face scrunching up, his tiny hands clenching into fists. Yennefer smiled down at the baby, then passed him over into Geralt’s open hands. His son was so small in his clasp. So delicate. So priceless.

He lifted his baby to his lips. Kissed a round, soft cheek that was so warm.

“Sshh,” he murmured. “Don’t cry. I’ll bring you to your daddy.”

His baby boy’s face smoothened into a placid expression. Those tiny fists unclenched. Those beautiful, iridescent eyes gazed up at him as if he was all that existed. Once more, his throbbing heart rocketed up into his throat, when one of those chubby, tiny hands touched his cheek with such gentleness.

“My boy,” Geralt whispered into tiny fingers when they touched his lips. “My son.”

His son, that this world had once deemed an impossibility for a witcher like him, burbled in response. It could have meant anything, but it brought a delighted smile to his face nonetheless. It was easy enough to tell himself that his son had said, _hello, Tata_.

He couldn’t explain how he knew he had to lay their baby on Jaskier’s bare chest, but he did. He tugged down the fleece blankets and opened up the navy blue dressing gown so he could place their baby chest down over Jaskier’s heart. Their baby snuggled into a comfortable ball, pressing that round, soft cheek to smooth skin.

Was it just his imagination that Jaskier’s cheeks were becoming even more rosy?

“I’m going to bed,” Yennefer said.

The first rays of dawn were spilling into the room through the windows. Geralt stood at the side of the bed, staring down at Jaskier and their baby boy. He felt Yennefer’s hand on his left shoulder.

“You should sleep as well,” she also said, and he raised his right hand to rest it on hers for a moment in wordless gratitude.

They both knew he wouldn’t, not for a long time yet. Not until he was absolutely certain that Jaskier was going to be all right. Not until he was absolutely certain that Death wouldn’t slink out of the shadows, and take away everything that belonged to him.

_Not today, you fucker._

_Not today._

He didn’t hear Yennefer leave the room. He sat on his heels by the bed, resting his forearms on the mattress, sagging against the bed’s lacquered mahogany frame. He stroked the length of Jaskier’s arm. He was almost at eye level with their baby boy. He stared into those large, amber-and-blue eyes, and breathed, and breathed.

His medallion was vibrating on his chest again.

It had been vibrating since he laid their baby boy on Jaskier’s chest.

“It’s you,” Geralt rasped, his eyes wide, the floor falling away from beneath him. “You’re the reason Jaskier survived the witcher potion.”

Their son blinked at him, slow and languorous like an owl. If their baby boy had any answer to give, it remained an enigma that showed glimpses of itself in the sweet stretch of those little, pink lips, in a faint gurgle.

He laid a hand on their baby’s small back over the knitted blanket. He could feel a wave of warmth emanating from it, like ripples of sunshine that unfurled verdant leaves and multi-hued flowers into full bloom.

As he watched through stinging eyes, the dark shadows under Jaskier’s eyes lightened by a shade.

Somehow, their baby boy was healing Jaskier by touch alone. Their baby boy was magical. A magical miracle, brought into existence by a generous god more ancient than this world—all because a big, old, unbearably crotchety and cantankerous witcher wished for it with a heart that refused to stop hoping for love.

Alone in the bedroom with Jaskier and their son, out of everyone else’s earshot and sight, Geralt allowed himself to grin. To release a sob into the air. He knew that no one here would judge him for it.

“My son,” he whispered, rubbing that precious, small back. “My little hero.”

And when his sweet miracle of a baby boy gurgled again, he heard the unconditional love he’d been seeking all his life in every mellow, pure sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next coda: Geralt and Jaskier name their baby boy.


	12. Coda #2: God Has Heard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slower update, I've been writing that Jaskier-whump horror story I mentioned in the end notes for chapter 6. It's [The Breaking of the Shell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490438). I'll be finishing that as fast as I can since it only has two more updates, so updates for this story may be a little slower until then. But I'll still be updating this regularly! ☺️
> 
> In this coda: Geralt and Jaskier banter and bicker while choosing a name for their baby son.
> 
> Soundtrack: [Benjamin Button OST - Love Returns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EM1zg-vydg)
> 
> Here is Jaskier pouting and pointing a forefinger at Geralt for reference:  
> 

Two weeks after their baby son was born, Geralt and Jaskier were still dithering about his name. They’d discussed the matter a few times, but couldn’t agree on one. Jaskier had written multiple lists of potential names in his leather-bound notebook throughout the months before the birth. Before Geralt had seen them, he’d assumed the lists would include examples like Aleksander, or Mateusz, or Wiktor.

Heroic names. Strong names. Names that made people stand tall when they were heard, or made them proud to behold their possessors.

Geralt had picked up the notebook from amid the stacks of papers and books on the writing desk at Jaskier’s behest. Opened it to the latest page that contained writing and read the list of names on it.

His brain stopped processing the rest of the list when he read the first name.

“Happy.” Sitting on the side of the bed next to Jaskier’s knees, dressed only in brown trousers, Geralt stared down at the page. Then he stared at Jaskier. “You want to call our son Happy.”

“Why not?” Jaskier was in a dark gold, long dressing gown, propped upright by pillows against the tall headboard. He was gazing down with crinkled, doting eyes at their newborn baby boy in his arms. “He _is_ happy all the time! Look at that sweet face, and those sparkling eyes, and that little smile that’s always there.”

Their baby boy, enveloped in a blue knitted blanket, gurgled and wriggled his little legs. Jaskier bowed his head and lifted their son high enough to kiss a smooth, soft forehead.

“ _Aw_ , you’re just the _cutest_ baby, aren’t you? Yes, you are!”

Their son gurgled again, his rosy, round cheeks bunching up in an open-mouthed smile. Jaskier grinned in return, brushing a hand across those silken tufts of white hair.

Geralt’s face softened with a quirk of lips. In just two weeks, their baby had grown so much from Jaskier suckling him multiple times per day and night. He’d already been big-sized and somewhat plump at birth, but now, he was the sort of chubby that reduced Jaskier to high-pitched coos, irresistible face nuzzles, and belly kisses.

Yes, Geralt was inundated with the urge to do the same demonstrative things too, every time their baby boy gazed at him with those beautiful amber-and-blue eyes. But he worried that his face was too rough for fragile baby skin. That his callused, large hands weren’t gentle enough to cradle a newborn baby. That all his hands knew to do was mete out pain and death, and that even when he was most cautious, he would somehow end up inflicting injury on their baby son.

Their son, who had such a contented disposition. Who was possibly the calmest, gentlest baby Geralt had ever known. Granted, he didn’t know many babies. He’d always assumed that they all constantly cried, shat themselves, and vomited on everything every chance they got. Before his son became such an integral part of his life, the closest he’d been to a baby was—well, when mothers ran away from him with their babies in tow, terrified that the cruel, monstrous witcher would hurt or kill them.

He would never hurt a child. Never.

And now that he was a father, he couldn’t find it in himself anymore to be resentful towards those mothers. They were simply protecting their treasured children from perceived harm. Some of those children probably had names far more—eclectic than the ones on Jaskier’s lists.

But, really? _Happy?_

“I can see him being a Happy,” Jaskier said, now holding one of their baby boy’s legs in his hand, rubbing a tiny foot and even tinier toes over the knitted blanket. “Can’t you?”

Geralt tried to imagine his son being named Happy. He squinted, and envisioned him twenty years from now, in black armor and clothing just like his, his white hair as long and thick, tousled by a cool wind. Gripping the hilt of a sword in a gloved hand. Raising the formidable weapon into the air, and then roaring his name to the people.

_Fear no more, kinsmen, for a mighty warrior is here! I am HAPPY!_

Then Geralt imagined the utter confusion of the crowd following that declaration. The boisterous muttering about who that mysterious mighty warrior was, and why this young, white-haired man was so happy about said warrior appearing.

It took every ounce of Geralt’s self-discipline to not dip his head and slap the open notebook to his face, and never show his red face again. He cleared his throat. Glanced down at the page of names, and reverted to his most reliable response in life to anything.

“Hmmn.”

He felt Jaskier’s eyes on his face, and he didn’t need to look at Jaskier to know that his beloved mate was squinting at him.

“It’s a good name!”

Geralt very wisely chose to say nothing. Jaskier had endured so much agony giving birth to their baby boy, and Geralt wasn’t going to forget that anytime soon. At the very least, he could humor Jaskier about this—eccentric name. For a while. Until Jaskier regained his senses and chose a _much_ better name.

Jaskier rolled eyes that twinkled with mirth at him, and said, “There are _other_ names, Geralt. You don’t have to look so scandalized.”

Geralt grunted again, his lips tremoring for a moment with shared mirth. He read the rest of the list, and breathed a soundless sigh of relief that the other names were not so bad.

He wasn’t sure about Basil. He wasn’t sure about Oleander either. Alder was all right. Sage had a nice ring to it, and also meant “profoundly wise”. He had no idea how to react to Buttercup, other than to imagine his son introducing himself with that name to the people he was going to save from a monster, and the entire crowd keeling over with disbelief and raucous laughter.

He very, _very_ wisely chose to not tell Jaskier any of that.

It did not pass his notice that these names were also the names of flowers, and the next one on the list made his lips quirk up in an amused smile.

“Dandelion,” he murmured, studying Jaskier’s filigree-like handwriting in black ink. “Hmmn.”

Oh, Jaskier’s eyes were even more narrowed now, aimed at him like twin arrows of blue fire.

“Is there something you want to say about _Dandelion?_ ”

Geralt was aware of the extremely treacherous ground he perched on in this moment. A single wrong word could result in him sleeping on the floor tonight, or on one of the many settees in this manor. A bare floor was hardly the worst surface he’d slept on in his life—but any surface that didn’t have Jaskier and their baby boy with him was already the worst, even if it was a sumptuous bed fit for a king.

Geralt cleared his throat. He placed the leather-bound notebook on the bedside table.

Then, slowly, he slid down onto his knees on the floor, facing Jaskier.

He rested his forearms on the bed, and replied, “A dandelion is, uhm, yellow. Very yellow when it blooms. Like the sun at sunset. Or butter. Or lemon.” He fidgeted with his fingers. Aimed what he’d been told by Ciri were “big puppy eyes” at Jaskier. “It’s, uhm, very pretty. Like its human namesake.”

Ah, there it was, that tremor through those dark pink lips that were still plump and supple, that betrayed Jaskier’s stern expression.

“Go on,” Jaskier commanded.

Geralt cleared his throat again, then said, “A dandelion is, uh, entirely edible. And nutritious.” His own lips began to tremor with mirth as hard as Jaskier’s. “It’s also known as, uhm, ‘piss-a-bed’ because its roots will make you piss your—”

His shoulders shook when, with no free hands, Jaskier had to nudge him on the chest with a bare foot instead of smacking him with a pillow. He didn’t budge an inch.

“And you can blow its head, and make its seed fly—” He gave Jaskier’s groin a pointed glance with crinkled eyes. “And think of a wish you want to come true!”

No matter how many years, how many decades he was going to live with Jaskier, he would never tire of the sight and sound of Jaskier bursting into genuine, gleeful laughter. Jaskier threw back that head of dark, luxuriant hair, his large blue eyes scrunched shut, his pearly teeth gleaming. His sinewy arms continued to cuddle their baby boy with care to his smooth chest.

“Get your lovely arse up here already, you euphemistic flatterer,” Jaskier said, grinning at him, nudging his chest with those shapely toes again.

Geralt scrambled onto the bed to sit next to Jaskier. He pressed his lips to Jaskier’s temple, then his smooth cheek, and Jaskier hummed in satisfaction. Both of them still wondered when Jaskier’s facial and body hair was going to return. Yennefer had hypothesized at breakfast a few days ago that it most likely wouldn’t be until their baby was weaned—something about “natural chemicals” inside Jaskier’s body regulating it to continue producing milk until it wasn’t required anymore, among other aspects.

Geralt wasn’t going to question Yennefer’s wisdom on such matters. Neither was he going to question the tree god’s magic or its course of actions to fully restore Jaskier’s body to its original state: it would happen in its own pace and time.

He loved Jaskier, no matter what his cherished mate’s body felt or looked like.

“You did make my wish come true, my dandelion,” Geralt murmured, resting his head on Jaskier’s shoulder.

He shut his eyes and drew in a deep, long breath full of Jaskier’s soothing scent. Jaskier smelled good, like baked pastry straight out of the oven, like the fresh air on spring’s first day, like sunshine on clean skin. Jaskier smelled like home. So did their son.

Their baby boy was gazing up at them with large, unblinking eyes. If anyone else had stared at Geralt this way, he would have become annoyed after several seconds. Angry, even, if they were staring because they were perturbed by his white hair and amber eyes. But when his baby boy stared at him, with such innocence, such unfeigned fascination, he could believe that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. That his hands weren’t bathed in blood, that his soul wasn’t steeped in even more spilled blood. That he was a good man worthy of such a gaze.

It was impossible to feel unhappy when he had those he loved most in his arms, when he could listen to their steady heartbeats, and be comforted by them.

“Geralt.”

“Hmmn?”

Jaskier was now grasping their baby’s left hand between callused, slender fingers. Extending their son’s chubby arm until it was straight. They chuckled quietly when he let out a curious squeak in response.

“Look at our roly-poly baby,” Jaskier murmured. “He has four fat rolls on each arm and leg.”

Geralt raised his head. His forehead creased even as his lips curled up.

“Do you—want me to do something about that?”

“No.” Jaskier raised that chubby, little hand to his lips and planted a kiss on it. “I just wanted to point out how adorable and perfect our son is.”

Geralt lowered his head back onto Jaskier’s shoulder, then shut his eyes, his lips still curled up.

“Hmmn.”

It took Jaskier twenty-six seconds to end the serene silence reigning over the bedroom.

“Anyway, I think Happy is a nice name.”

It took Geralt three seconds to catapult himself back onto that extremely treacherous ground.

“A warrior called Happy won’t last long on the battlefield,” he grumbled.

“Excuse me?”

Geralt’s eyes popped open. He sat upright, gazed at Jaskier’s face and—uh oh, that was _not_ a sunny look Jaskier was leveling at him.

“ _Excuse_ me, but what makes you think that our son is going to be a _warrior?_ ”

Jaskier’s lips were jutting out in an affronted pout, and those blue eyes were narrowed into volatile slits.

“I—” Geralt shut his mouth. He opened it a few seconds later, and said, “I thought—he—probably would because—” He shut his mouth again. Then, aiming those big puppy eyes at Jaskier once more, he said, “Because that’s what I’m—good at. What I can teach him.”

Jaskier’s expression gradually softened to an affectionate one, although his forehead was still furrowed behind those dark bangs.

“Well, have you considered that perhaps he might turn out to be a—I don’t know, a _bard?_ ”

Geralt opened his mouth again, but his brain was yelling at him to tread very carefully. He pressed his lips together. Squinted his eyes in contemplation.

What came out of his mouth after that was, “A bard called _Happy?_ ”

Jaskier let out a dramatic, heavy sigh. He rolled his eyes and retorted, “You know what, we should call him Baby and be done with it.”

Geralt gaped at Jaskier, his mouth falling open.

“We can’t call our son _Baby!_ ”

Jaskier narrowed those long-lashed eyes at him again. “Why not?”

Geralt gaped at Jaskier again. Then he glanced down at their baby boy, and gestured at him with both hands.

“He’s not going to be a baby for the rest of his life!”

Cuddling their baby with one arm, Jaskier raised a forefinger into the air, mouth open and ready for a blasting retort. The forefinger wavered in the air as Jaskier made a series of faces, his appealing features contorting in comical ways.

“That’s— _true_.” That forefinger shot up straight again, and with wide eyes, Jaskier exclaimed, “But the _point_ is, why _can’t_ we call him Baby?” Jaskier glanced down at their baby son, and his face softened into a loving expression. “I think it’s rather cute, actually—”

“We will _not_ call our son _Baby_ ,” Geralt growled, his eyebrows lowered in a glower. “Who will respect a warrior called Baby—”

“Oh, _oh_ , so we’re going _there_ again!” Jaskier sat up, his spine straight and his head held high and his eyes wide with indignation. “Why are you so sure he’s going to be a fighter, hm? Maybe he’ll be a _lover_ instead of a fighter! Maybe he’ll become a bard just like _me!_ ”

Geralt pressed his palms to his temples and let out a belabored sigh.

“Jaskier—”

“And maybe he’ll choose the lute instead of the sword, and he’ll—he’ll _rear horsies_ instead and give them a good home, and—and open a _vast_ flower nursery, and sell brightly-colored flowers that make people very, very happy—”

“ _Jaskier_ —”

“And he’ll write poems and songs, and when he isn’t touring the Continent, he’ll live in a cottage by the sea—”

Geralt flung his hands up in the air and exclaimed, “That doesn’t mean we must name him _Baby!_ Would you listen to songs by a bard called—called—” He waved his hands in the air in frustration. “ _Happy Baby?!_ ”

He was still so awestruck, sometimes, by the elasticity of Jaskier’s facial features.

Jaskier sputtered and moved his mouth in the most incredible shapes, then exclaimed, “Why not?! I am so disappointed in you, Geralt. I never thought you would discriminate people based solely on their _names_ —”

“There is _no one_ called Happy or Baby on this Continent,” Geralt growled through his teeth. “And for good reason!”

“Oh, really? And what’s that?!”

Geralt slapped his palms to his temples again. “I just told you!”

Jaskier wagged a forefinger in the air at him. “And _I_ just told _you!_ ”

Geralt lowered his hands and let out an exasperated growl. “Told me what?!”

They stared at each other in the abrupt hush that ensued. Jaskier sucked in that plump lower lip that Geralt adored to kiss and lick. Those long-lashed blue eyes skimmed unashamedly down his nude upper body from shoulders to waist, then back up to his face.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier’s lips tremored with mirth, and his crinkled eyes twinkled. “I’ve completely lost track of what we’re arguing about because of your stupid face, your stupid hairy chest, and your _stupid face_.”

They stared at each other for several more seconds. Then, they erupted into guffaws in unison, with Jaskier falling back against the pillows, and Geralt collapsing facedown in a heap on the bed, pressing his face to Jaskier’s thigh. He heard their baby boy squeal in excitement.

When he caught his breath, Geralt sat up and leaned over their baby son’s head to gaze into those amber-and-blue eyes.

He asked, “Do _you_ have an opinion on this?”

And Jaskier said, “It _is_ your name we’re choosing here.”

Their baby burbled, then kicked both legs inside the blue knitted blanket.

At that moment, Geralt’s wolf medallion vibrated on his chest. He sat back on his heels with wide eyes—and seconds later, a hefty, leather-bound book plummeted from the writing desk onto the floor. He felt more than saw Jaskier startle from the loud thud of impact.

“What was that?”

Geralt had seen the book fall, but not Jaskier. He crawled to the foot of the bed, then sauntered over to the writing desk to pluck up the book from the floor. It was a hefty tome indeed, almost four inches thick, and nine inches in length and width. There were no words or designs on the plain cover.

He sauntered back to the bed and climbed onto it, crawling back to sit beside Jaskier. He grasped the spine of the book with his left hand and opened it with his right. Their temples touched while they gazed down at the light brown pages that were filled with handwritten text in black ink.

“Oh,” Jaskier murmured. “It’s a book of names and their meanings.”

Geralt turned his head to look at Jaskier, an eyebrow arched.

“You had this book all this time?”

Jaskier made a face, then replied, “I—don’t remember? I never referred to any books while I was making those lists of names. I’d never seen this book until today.”

Geralt glanced at their baby son. Those large, amber-and-blue eyes stared back at him with pure innocence. He felt his whole being relax under his son’s gaze, and he brushed the back of his fingers against those tufts of hair as white as his.

“All right, hand over the book. You take the baby.”

Jaskier didn’t give him the chance to ask why. He placed the book on Jaskier’s lap and gladly cuddled their baby lengthwise in his arms. He gave his son a small albeit fond smile.

Jaskier skimmed through the book for a couple of seconds, then groaned and scrunched his face.

“Gods, it’ll take us _forever_ to read through this beast of a book!” He shut the tome, then glanced at Geralt and said, “Tell you what, we’ll let the book decide.”

Geralt stared at Jaskier, and muttered, “What.”

“We’ll let the _book_ decide!” With a smug smile, Jaskier rested the closed book with its front cover facing up on his lap. “I’ll shut my eyes, flip the book, let the pages fall where they may—and point at a name on the page!”

Geralt didn’t know what his expression was when he blurted out, “Jaskier, no.”

“Yes!”

“Jaskier, _no_.”

But his stubborn mate had already shut those blue eyes, already flipped the book open on his lap. The pages were settling. Jaskier stuck his tongue out between his lips. His forefinger hovered in the air above the book.

Geralt watched with bated breath, with a narrowed-eyed grimace. Oh gods, if Jaskier’s finger actually landed on _Buttercup_ —

In his embrace, his baby boy burbled and kicked those little legs again.

On his chest, his medallion vibrated for a few seconds.

And, as if invisible hands were at work, the pages of the book flipped some more.

Jaskier’s finger plunged down. Geralt’s lower jaw sagged. Their baby let out a squeal—and Jaskier’s fingertip landed with a subdued thud on the page.

For a moment, no one moved or said a word. Geralt was the first to do the former: he glanced down at their baby boy, a smile of amazement spreading across his face. A tranquil expression of bright eyes at half-mast and dewy, smiling lips greeted him in return.

There he was in his arms, his baby boy. His little, sweet, magical miracle.

He cradled his son closer to his chest. Despite his earlier bickering with Jaskier, it didn’t matter so much to him, really, what name his son would have. He would love him just the same: with all his heart and soul, to the end of his prolonged life, and beyond.

Jaskier peeled open an eye.

Geralt leaned over the book in unison with Jaskier, their heads touching. They stared at the name Jaskier’s fingertip had landed on.

“Szymon,” they said together.

They sat back and gazed at each other. Then they leaned over the book again, and read the meaning of that name written in smaller text under it.

Geralt recited, “‘God has heard.’”

Again, they sat back and gazed at each other, their warm eyes crinkling. Geralt then gazed down at their baby boy, lifting him higher on his chest. Jaskier laid that head of dark, luxuriant hair on his shoulder, smiling down at their baby.

“Szymon,” Geralt rasped, and he knew in that moment that it was the name his son was destined to have, just like he and Jaskier were destined to be together, destined to have their son.

“Hello, Szymon,” Jaskier murmured, caressing their baby’s round cheek with his fingers. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Their adorable and perfect baby boy, Szymon, gazed up at them. Then, as inescapable and inevitable as the summer sun rising above the horizon, Szymon’s lips stretched in a radiant smile, the first of a thousand more to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe I'm saying this, but I am _so_ tempted to write a soulmate AU story where Geralt is called Buttercup of Rivia, and everyone in this AU gets a clue about their soulmate from their names bestowed upon them by the gods. 😂 And yes, I know Jaskier in Polish means buttercup. It's still kinda hilarious to me that the English translations of the Witcher books considered Buttercup "too feminine" and went with Dandelion because of that.
> 
> BTW, yes, Vesemir will appear in a future coda. And there will _probably_ be a smutty chapter featuring Jaskier with his "changed" genitals. As for a more detailed birth scene--huh, I'm not sure about that, because I already consider the scene in the main story to be rather graphic, haha. But who knows!
> 
> In the next coda: More tooth-rotting fluff of Geralt and Jaskier taking care of their baby boy in his first year of life.


	13. Coda #3: Love Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'd like to address some of the comments for the previous coda--I should mention that I chose the name Szymon for Geralt and Jaskier's baby because it's a silent tribute to my good friend in Real Life who shares the same name. He's the reason I became interested in The Witcher in any way. And since rape is a, well, sensitive issue for me, it was doubly shocking to me to find out that Szymon was the name of some brutal rapist of Jaskier in another Witcher fanfiction. I still don't know how to react to that. I had no idea the story existed at all, but I'm grateful for the warnings about it anyway, and will avoid it.
> 
> I have no intentions of changing Szymon's name. I have no hard feelings either if any reader chooses to no longer read the codas: I understand the power of association, even if it's just the coincidence of a first name. But well, if there's a story out there corrupting the name, I suppose it's perhaps my gods-given duty to redeem it in the codas for this story. 🙂
> 
> Get ready for an ocean's worth of gentle-father!Geralt feels!
> 
> Soundtrack: [Benjamin Button OST - Love Returns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EM1zg-vydg)

For Geralt, the days since the birth of his baby son passed by like fleeting, warm minutes. He felt as if it’d only been yesterday that he had arrived at Yennefer’s luxurious manor after months of fighting and fleeing from the Nilfgaardian army with Ciri. Only yesterday, that he had laid eyes upon Jaskier after believing that he never would again, and clasped in his arms his best friend, his brother-in-arms, his songbird—the White Wolf’s mate, in every way.

Only yesterday, that their little, sweet baby boy had been a crying, flailing newborn in Jaskier’s arms, proclaiming his miraculous presence to the world, and searing Geralt’s eyes with rare, stinging wetness.

Now, Szymon was six months old, a chubby, rosy-cheeked baby with thick, white hair that Jaskier always enjoyed combing, and a contented smile that lingered on dewy, pink lips. It amused Geralt that Jaskier couldn’t stop cooing over what he described as “fat rolls”, gently poking at those rolls on plump arms and legs with a forefinger, then peppering kisses on them as if in apology for the slightest hint of discomfort his finger had caused.

Szymon always giggled whenever Jaskier did that. Szymon always gifted Geralt and Jaskier with a radiant smile whenever they cuddled and rocked him in their arms, and especially when Jaskier sang to him, as if he remembered hearing Jaskier’s songs in the womb. That smile was as uplifting as sunshine for a flower at dawn. It drove away the darkness within Geralt, for a while, time and again: a relentless warrior in unbreakable armor that refused to surrender to the monster in the lightless cave.

It was truly impossible for him to be unhappy when his baby boy stared up at him with those innocent amber-and-blue eyes, and saw within him, without any doubt in that budding soul, that relentless warrior.

Still, there were days when he couldn’t help wondering why the tree god had chosen _him_ out of everyone in this world to bestow happiness upon, to love. Why a _god_ had—and he still couldn’t believe this, even after hearing it straight from Yennefer’s mouth—a _crush_ on him.

He was a witcher. He was—not quite like the monsters he killed, but he also wasn’t human. Not anymore. He was—different. Yes, different, and for so much of his life, he’d been taught by the world that someone like him was never meant to earn peace for himself, much less happiness and love.

Was it because of Jaskier, because of his love for Jaskier, that he was blessed so? As Jaskier had pointed out months ago in the garden, under the shade of leafy ash trees, Jaskier had been the catalyst for so many momentous events in his life. Would the tree god have even noticed him that night in Caed Myrkvid, even cared to notice him, if it hadn’t been for his heart’s preoccupation with his bard companion sleeping by the campfire?

What would have become of him if he’d never met his beloved mate in that tavern in Posada over twenty years ago?

He couldn’t imagine that. He couldn’t imagine a past, a present, a future without Jaskier.

“Your daddy is the man I have chosen for life. Can you believe that?”

His little, sweet baby boy gurgled up at him from the cradle of his arms. Jaskier had dressed their son in a cream-and-tan, knitted tunic, and Jaskier had somehow also knitted and stitched little multi-colored flowers to the tunic. Geralt was still wonderstruck by the fact that Jaskier knew how to _knit_ on top of singing, playing multiple musical instruments, and writing innumerable songs and stories.

And no, there was absolutely nothing wrong with him wearing knitted socks, no matter what color or pattern they had. It was smart of him to cover his feet when they felt cold. Any fellow witcher would agree with him on that. Especially Eskel and his ceaseless obsession with _bees_ , of all things.

Geralt shifted on the bed, slumped even more against the headboard and pillows behind his back, and wriggled his feet that were sheathed in teal-on-white polka dot socks.

“I’ll tell you a secret, little happy one,” Geralt murmured, brushing his fingers through Szymon’s waves of silken hair. “But you can’t tell anyone else, hm?”

Szymon let out an intrigued squeal, and reached up to touch his cheek with a tiny hand so chubby that its knuckles were dimples instead. His lips quirked up in a fond smile.

“The secret is, I don’t want anyone else but your daddy as my partner.”

There that radiant smile was again, bunching up those rosy cheeks and lighting up those amber-and-blue eyes that narrowed in jollity. Geralt had no clue if Szymon actually understood what he said. He had no clue what Szymon felt or thought unless there was crying or laughter in response to things he or Jaskier did for their baby boy.

He wanted to press his face to those round, soft cheeks. To pepper kisses all over that sweet face, and that small belly that undulated with giggles whenever Jaskier blew raspberries on it.

He worried, so much, that his face was too rough, that so were his hands for him to lavish affection on his baby.

But that tiny hand touched his cheek without fear. Those tiny fingers skimmed the expanse of his old, weathered skin, and didn’t recoil from it. Those tiny fingers touched him as if he was immaculate. As if he’d always been worthy of peace, of happiness and love.

His baby boy looked at him, and didn’t see a monster.

Szymon began to wave those chubby arms in excitement as Geralt lifted him upright so that their eyes were level. He couldn’t restrain his own smile even if he’d wished to, and for some reason unknown to him, his smile caused his baby boy’s smile to expand. It was the encouragement he needed to draw his baby to his face. To press his lips to one round cheek, then other. To also kiss that smooth, soft forehead, then that little nose that was a combination of his and Jaskier’s, then the corners of that gurgling mouth, disregarding the dribble there.

There was no part of his son that was impure, that he didn’t love.

“I wish I knew how to speak to you, like your daddy,” he murmured, after he drew his head back enough to gaze into those bright, amber-and-blue eyes that gazed back with concentration. “How to tell you the things I feel, and think, about the world. About you.”

Szymon burbled a string of random sounds, and Geralt let out a quiet chuckle at the irony of him talking to a baby about communication problems. His lips quirked up once more when Szymon’s tiny fingers touched them.

“I suppose you and I will just have to learn along the way, don’t we?”

He kissed his baby boy’s hand, and he basked in the exuberant smile that elicited, like a bloomed flower absorbing the rays from the sun.

Then, from his left, he heard Jaskier murmur, “You won’t hurt him, you know.”

He cuddled Szymon to his chest and turned his head to look at Jaskier. Jaskier had been napping on his side all this time, facing them. In the refuge of their bedroom, Jaskier was wearing a long dressing gown and nothing else, and its dark red-and-gold folds swept down Jaskier’s still hairless body in silk hillocks.

“You _do_ realize how much he adores receiving kisses and hugs from you.”

Jaskier’s whole face was tender, those blue eyes doting, those dark pink lips that were still plump curled up with contentment. Jaskier had listened to the entire one-sided conversation.

Geralt turned his abruptly hot face away. He gazed at their baby son who batted at his wolf medallion with a gentle, tiny hand.

“Hmmn.”

Jaskier snorted, but it was a noise cushioned with the same love that Geralt felt for these two so very important people in his life.

“Oh no, don’t think you can get away from having a conversation by employing those vigorous grunts of yours.”

On their own volition, Geralt’s lips quirked up yet again, and his amber eyes crinkled at the corners. Jaskier pushed himself upright with both arms, then slid across the bed to plaster himself against Geralt’s side, leaning that head of dark, luxuriant hair on his shoulder.

Szymon burbled at them both, and it was an utter mystery to Geralt what their son was extolling with those zestful hand gestures. But Jaskier played along with an effortlessness that Geralt wished he had.

“ _Yes_ , you are so right, sweetheart,” Jaskier said, raising his head to nod enthusiastically, his eyes wide and sparkling. “Tata thinks such silly things about himself, doesn’t he? Even you know that!”

“I do not,” Geralt growled, his eyebrows lowered, his eyes still crinkled.

“Yes, he does,” Jaskier said to their baby boy. “Tata certainly does, doesn’t he?”

Szymon let out a shrill squeal, as if emphasizing a point. Geralt slowly turned his head to glower at Jaskier, his lips tremoring just the slightest bit.

“Why does our son always agree with you, and not me?”

Jaskier sniffed, then replied, “Because I say so.”

Geralt opened his mouth in preparation for a rumbling retort. Then he recalled a heavily pregnant Jaskier in his arms, in the shelter of his spread legs, groaning and writhing in the agony of labor. He recalled the lake of blood that had permeated their old bed, blood that should have stayed in Jaskier’s cherished body.

He slowly closed his mouth.

Jaskier leaned his head on his shoulder again with the air of a self-satisfied king, but the theatrical act was spoiled when Szymon grabbed Jaskier’s nose in one of those chubby hands and squeezed it. The squeaky sound that exploded out of Jaskier’s mouth at that made Geralt’s shoulders shake.

“Well, you did choose me as your partner for life,” Jaskier said, once their baby boy got bored of trying to twist off his nose and returned to playing with Geralt’s medallion. “This is your own fault.”

Geralt gazed at their little, sweet son who had so swiftly become a big baby. He listened to a familiar heartbeat as languid as his, to Jaskier’s heartbeat that was faster than theirs but no less stronger.

“I do make good choices, sometimes.”

Jaskier said nothing. But Geralt felt that head of dark hair turn, and he felt the kiss to his shoulder through his linen shirt like a beam of sunlight across his skin.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

From the day Jaskier had awakened from his magical coma until today, seven months and two weeks later, Jaskier had suckled their baby boy without complaint. That had been true even during the days and nights when the feedings had been mere hours apart.

“You’re getting hungrier and hungrier, aren’t you, my little happy dandelion.”

Jaskier had delighted in the intimate activity since the very first time. Weeks before Szymon was born, Yennefer had warned him and Geralt that the suckling might hurt a great deal. That his nipples might feel as if they were “bleeding wounds mashed on coarse rock”. Even Geralt had grimaced at that. Jaskier had panicked for a day or two, but then calmed down when Geralt reminded him that whatever happened, he knew Jaskier was strong enough to handle it.

He’d been right: Jaskier had, after all, given birth to their son, and lived to not only tell about it, but thrive after it.

To their relief, the worst of it was an overwhelming, tingling sensation in Jaskier’s chest whenever their baby latched on. There was no pain whatsoever. Jaskier had described the suckling as gentle tugs that were followed by blissful sensations of warmth throughout his chest.

Sometimes, Jaskier would fall asleep before Geralt’s eyes while nursing, so drowsy and relaxed. But most times, Jaskier would be gazing down at Szymon with crinkled, warm eyes, letting their curious baby pat his face or tug on the collar of his dressing gown—like he was now.

“Are you memorizing me, sweetheart? Hm?”

Szymon gurgled and touched Jaskier’s smooth chin.

“I’ve got you memorized from head to toe, you know. Just like I have your Tata memorized.”

Geralt savored in being able to sit next to Jaskier on their bed during such times, in having the privilege to watch, to listen to Jaskier’s murmurings to their baby boy about anything and everything. He knew how important it was to Jaskier to bond as much as he could with their son while nursing him.

He also knew, much sooner than later now, that Szymon would permanently move onto solid foods and be weaned.

Jaskier hadn’t expected that to occur a mere week later—but he had.

“I think it’s time, Jaskier.”

They sat on the side of the bed. Geralt was cuddling Szymon who was dressed in a light blue tunic, and Jaskier had one side of his dressing gown pulled aside, exposing half of his smooth chest. Jaskier was pressing a palm to his nipple. It no longer leaked any milk.

“But—Yennefer said, a year,” Jaskier rasped. “Maybe even two.”

Jaskier’s eyes were glistening in the candlelight.

Geralt sat closer to his distraught mate, their upper arms and thighs pressed together. In his arms, Szymon let out a subdued gurgle, then wriggled his chubby legs.

He had seen this coming from the day Szymon had taken his first bite of solid food in the dining room two weeks ago: those amber-and-blue eyes had lit up with surprise and relish at the spoonful of pureed carrot Jaskier fed him. Four spoonfuls after that, their baby had burst into tears at not being fed more, but Yennefer had forbidden it—too much solid food could hurt him.

Without milk from Jaskier, they now had to feed their baby son with solid food. Whatever reason the tree god’s magic had to halt the nursing, it wouldn’t have done so unless it was certain that there were alternative sources of food to feed Szymon, and to help him flourish. This was inevitable, whether it happened today, or in a year, or two years. This was ultimately a good thing.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Geralt murmured anyway, and he felt inadequate, felt disgruntled at himself for not being as eloquent as Jaskier was.

But it seemed those four words were enough, for Jaskier pulled his dressing gown back over his chest, then sagged against him and leaned his head on Geralt’s shoulder with a long sigh. Jaskier grasped one of Szymon’s tiny feet, rubbing the soft top of it with a thumb.

“I’m just—” Jaskier sucked in a quivering breath, then whispered, “I’m just scared that he won’t be so close to me anymore.”

Geralt didn’t scoff at that heartfelt statement. It wasn’t the first time that Jaskier had confessed fears of Szymon becoming distant from him as their baby boy grew older. Multiple times, he’d stumbled upon Jaskier resting their baby in a curled-up, prone position on his flat belly, as if he was reliving the experience of being pregnant.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier didn’t respond, but Geralt knew he was listening.

“Do you not see how our son reacts to you?” Geralt leaned his cheek on top of Jaskier’s head. “When you speak to him? Sing to him? Even when you don’t?”

“How?” Jaskier whispered.

“He thinks you’re his whole world. His eyes follow you around the room, and he smiles just hearing your name. When you look back at him, he lights up like the sun, and he waves his arms like he can fly.”

He waited for Jaskier to laugh. To mock his meager observations.

Jaskier sat up, then kissed him on the cheek. On the corner of his lips. On his lips, after he turned his head to gaze at Jaskier with heavy-lidded eyes.

Jaskier’s eyes were still glistening. But his lips were also quirked up, and his appealing face tender when he murmured, “I love you, you perceptive beauty.”

That evening, while Jaskier was in the copper bathtub, Geralt sauntered in and caught a glimpse of Jaskier swiping a hand across eyes that were more red than blue. He did not pretend to understand what Jaskier was feeling about the loss of nursing their baby: there was no other man in this world who could. There was no other man in this world like Jaskier.

He was glad to be able to console Jaskier later in bed, hugging Jaskier to his side, lying on his back so his mate could press an ear to his chest to listen to his heartbeat. Szymon slumbered in a blanket-lined, woven basket next to them, his chubby arms stretched above his head. Jaskier’s fingertips grazed the side of the basket.

To Geralt’s relief, Jaskier rapidly moved on by preoccupying himself with drawing their baby boy in black ink in his leather-bound notebook. The first few attempts were— _interesting_. Geralt told Jaskier as much, and Jaskier pouted while he squinted at said drawings, plainly disagreeing with him. But a few hours later, after completing many more drawings, Jaskier admitted that, _fine_ , perhaps he had _slightly_ exaggerated their baby’s fat rolls by adding too many to both arms and legs.

Geralt frequently opened the notebook whenever Jaskier wasn’t present. To gaze at the latest drawings. To smile at his son smiling back from them, and consider which ones to preserve with Yennefer’s magic and bring with him on his next monster hunt, tucked into a pouch for good luck.

In Szymon’s eighth month of life, on yet another summery day, Jaskier started itching like mad _everywhere_ on his body.

“By the gods, this is _ridiculous_ ,” Jaskier squeaked. “Yennefer, help me!”

Their ragtag family were lounging in the manor’s first living room after lunch. Geralt was sitting on the settee with Jaskier, while Yennefer sat in an armchair reading a book in a language Geralt couldn’t identify. Ciri was having a ball with Szymon on the carpeted floor, laughing with the happy baby. Szymon was on his belly, dressed in a green tunic with gold hems. He lifted his head to give Ciri a grin that exhibited his sprouting bottom front teeth.

Geralt had no words to describe the funny, warm sensation in his chest whenever his baby son also grinned at him with those two gleaming, tiny teeth.

“Stop scratching yourself like a dog,” Yennefer muttered to Jaskier without glancing up from her book.

Jaskier squirmed and scratched away at his chest with both hands over a ruffled shirt that was untied at the collar and tucked into his breeches. The exposed skin that the collar framed was marked with reddened streaks. With a raised eyebrow, Geralt grasped Jaskier’s wrists and tugged those frantic hands towards him.

“Geralt, _noooo_ ,” Jaskier whined, sounding all of two-years-old instead of the forty-year-old man he was. “It’s so itchy!”

“Jaskier, stop it,” Geralt said with a low sigh, holding his stubborn mate’s wrists in place in the narrow space between them. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Jaskier pouted at him. “What’s wrong with me?”

Still gazing down at her book, Yennefer replied, “I could make a list as thick as this book, but my time is precious.” When Jaskier pouted at her instead, she said, “You don’t need my help. Your body hair is growing back, you birdbrain bard. Have you forgotten what it’s like to grow a beard?”

Jaskier’s lower lip protruded even more.

“I’ve never grown a beard. Most I’ve grown out is stubble.”

Geralt raised both eyebrows this time. Oh, that was something he hadn’t known before about Jaskier. He often saw Jaskier carefully shaving himself with a small razor in front of a mirror whenever they stayed in an inn. He’d also seen Jaskier with dark stubble plenty of times in the twenty-plus years they’d known each other—but it had never occurred to him to wonder whether Jaskier could actually grow a full-fledged beard.

 _He_ could. He’d done it numerous times throughout his century of life. It added a severity to his visage when it was combined with his customary half-up, half-down ponytail style.

But until he’d met Jaskier, he had no one to shave his face as skillfully as Jaskier did.

And Jaskier liked his face clean-shaven. Very much. In particular whenever he was sucking on Jaskier’s delicious cock, and his cheeks rubbed against Jaskier’s inner thighs. Also, Jaskier didn’t want the dimple in his chin to be concealed, so who was he to deny him that?

“Can’t you make the itchiness go away?”

Jaskier was trying to remove his wrists from Geralt’s grip. It was somewhat amusing to him that his vexed mate was resorting to peeling off his fingers one by one, but he was smarter than to say that aloud.

Yennefer rolled her eyes and finally glanced at Jaskier with a bored expression.

“I could.” Her red lips curved up in an impenitent smile. “But I won’t.”

Geralt was much smarter than to point out that Jaskier’s furious squint and pouting lips made him look like their baby boy whenever said baby couldn’t devour more pureed carrot or oatmeal.

Said baby also did not help Geralt in any way to maintain composure when, with no preamble whatsoever, he squinted those amber-and-blue eyes, stiffened on the floor, and released a trumpeting fart that made his green tunic flap. On the upside, Jaskier completely forgot to scratch himself, having toppled onto the floor to join Ciri in red-faced hysterics while Yennefer shook her head at everyone, her lips tremoring with mirth.

Geralt and Jaskier knew the tree god’s magic was at work once more when they woke up the next morning in bed: Jaskier’s chest was hirsute again, all the way up to the collarbones like Geralt remembered. So were Jaskier’s forearms, and legs. That treasure trail of dark hair was back, an eye-catching contrast to the pale stretch marks that seemed to flare out on both sides of it like wings.

“Geralt, look!” Jaskier exclaimed, kneeling next to him on the bed, having yanked up the front of his nightgown to the neck. “It’s _back!_ ”

Propped up on one elbow and lying on his side, Geralt said nothing. He stared at the dark curls that surrounded Jaskier’s genitals—and realized that he’d yet to make love to Jaskier with all that body hair restored.

This Jaskier was the man he’d known before the tree god had wielded its immense power to make Jaskier pregnant with his child. This Jaskier was the man he’d known before Jaskier had walked out of that inn room in Gulet via Yennefer’s portal. This Jaskier was the man who had already been in love with him decades before he’d found out.

In this sunlit moment, Jaskier was just as beautiful and breathtaking to behold as he’d been for the past nine months.

Jaskier was _his_ , no matter how the human man felt, looked, or smelled to his heightened senses.

Jaskier let out a sound of bafflement, a comical cross between a grunt and a squeak when Geralt rolled and swung his legs off the side of the bed to sit up. Geralt plucked up his trousers from the floor and tugged them on. With Jaskier’s wide eyes following him, he strode around the bed to the other side so he could pick up the woven basket in which, to his pleasant surprise, Szymon was still fast asleep.

With both hands, he held the basket out to Jaskier and said, “Kiss him.”

Jaskier had released his grip on his nightgown, and it covered his torso again. Jaskier gaped at him for a few seconds in total bewilderment, but did so anyway, planting a few gentle kisses on their baby boy’s forehead and cheek.

Geralt felt Jaskier’s stare on his back as he strode to the bedroom door with their slumbering baby in the basket. He envisioned himself at the door of Yennefer’s bedroom on the floor above, apologizing to her for the sudden babysitting task.

When he swung open the door, she was already standing there in a puffy-sleeved, linen dress tied at the waist, as ravishing as she ever was.

He gaped at her, his lower jaw sagging. Before he could speak, she plucked the woven basket and its precious, slumbering cargo out of his hands. She hugged the basket close to her torso, and smiled softly down at Szymon. Then she raised her head and glanced at him with a straight face.

“Take your time,” she said.

Without waiting for his response, she swiveled around and sauntered down the passageway, not looking back once.

He gaped at her for several more seconds. Then, he shut the bedroom door, and turned around to face the bed where Jaskier still knelt. Jaskier had stripped off the nightgown. It pooled on his lap in a rumpled mound.

“Geralt?”

Jaskier gazed at him with those large, puppy eyes. His head of dark, tousled hair was tilted at a slight angle, his forehead furrowed. Sunshine streaked across the bed, gilding rectangular sections of Jaskier’s nude body up to the neck. One section striped across Jaskier’s chest and drew Geralt’s fierce gaze to the dark curls scattered there.

Geralt let out a low growl and strode towards the bed, already hardening fast in his trousers.

“Geralt? Where’s—what—”

Geralt halted long enough to strip off his trousers and toss them aside. His rigid cock bounced against his firm belly. Jaskier’s confused expression transformed into one of comprehension—and exhilaration.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathed out, eyes widening, a smile spreading across his flushed face. “ _Oh_ , Geralt—”

Geralt leapt onto the bed. Onto Jaskier who erupted into gleeful laughter, toppling backward onto the bed under his substantial weight with a jubilant squawk. Jaskier flung his nightgown off the bed.

Geralt swooped down to kiss Jaskier hard. He slid between Jaskier’s spread thighs and ground his hips against his mate’s, rubbing their burgeoning cocks together, swallowing those luscious, muffled moans that poured into his mouth. He luxuriated in the new sensations of their body hair rubbing back and forth. He carded his fingers through Jaskier’s chest hair. Rubbed his palm over Jaskier’s nipple, then pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.

Jaskier’s back arched off the bed as if a bolt of lightning had zigzagged through him. To their gratification, Jaskier’s nipples had stayed acutely sensitive to Geralt’s touch in the wake of his body’s transformation after their baby’s birth.

Jaskier groaned into his mouth, “Oh gods, Geralt, yes—”

Geralt kissed and licked his way down from Jaskier’s open, wet mouth to a long, pale neck. Jaskier arched off the bed again when Geralt clamped his teeth around that bared neck, feeling his aroused mate’s thundering pulse against his tongue.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaskier moaned, writhing against him, tugging at his loose, long hair, “good morning to me.”

“Mine,” Geralt growled around the hot, smooth flesh in his mouth.

“Yours,” Jaskier gasped. “Always yours, my white wolf.”

Those were the last coherent words from Jaskier’s mouth for hours after that, subsumed into louder and louder moans while Geralt plowed into him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Geralt and Jaskier’s baby boy was returned to them after dinner by a Yennefer reluctant to let him go. Geralt harbored no irritation while Yennefer took her time, hugging Szymon tight to her chest and nuzzling his rosy cheeks. Szymon adored her hugs and kisses as much as those from his fathers, and it showed in his smiles, his gurgles, and his tiny hands touching her cheeks.

She’d told Geralt about her lack of a womb years ago, after Rinde, when they’d been lovers. He remembered the flash of ancient pain in her violet eyes that she hadn’t hidden from him in time. He remembered why she’d desperately wanted to become a djinn’s vessel. Why she’d so desperately sought the tree god in Caed Myrkvid before she or anyone else had known what it was.

To cuddle Szymon, to kiss his cheeks and hold his chubby hand in hers, to see him smile back at her, was the closest Yennefer might ever be to being a mother to a baby.

“Hello, sweetheart! Did you miss me and Tata? I missed you _so much!_ ”

Geralt’s lips quirked up at Jaskier darting to Yennefer to take Szymon into his arms. Jaskier showered their giggling baby’s face with kisses, and Geralt gave Yennefer a nod and a warm look that she returned as she shut the bedroom door behind her. He and Jaskier had discussed her situation once or twice, in the cozy dimness of the night, in hushed whispers—and both of them wished the best for her ongoing mission to regain her womb, that perhaps the tree god would choose to be magnanimous again.

Geralt heard Szymon let out a mystified squeak. He turned his head to see their baby son staring down at Jaskier’s hirsute chest revealed by the low, v-shaped neckline of his shirt. Those large, amber-and-blue eyes were round as their ingenuous possessor dragged a tiny hand down the dark curls that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“I’m still me, sweetheart,” Jaskier murmured. “I’m still Daddy.”

Geralt frowned in puzzlement. Why would Jaskier say such a thing?

Then he saw the bobbing of Jaskier’s throat while Jaskier gazed and smiled at their mystified baby. He saw the anxiety in his beloved mate’s eyes—and he understood.

Would their son really reject Jaskier due to this minor change of his body?

It was inconceivable to Geralt.

He sauntered to Jaskier’s side, and stood with bated breath while they watched Szymon tug at those dark curls and burble to himself. Jaskier grimaced at a zealous tug but said nothing.

“Szymon,” Geralt said, gently grasping their baby’s hand in his, giving it a squeeze and then releasing it. “Be gentle. Like you’re gentle with my hair.”

Szymon stared up at him, those dewy, pink lips parted. He still didn’t know if Szymon understood what he said, but when Szymon stared at Jaskier and then gave him that radiant smile, he knew that Jaskier’s fear of rejection was unfounded.

“Ah-dah-dah,” Szymon blurted out, patting Jaskier’s lightly stubbled cheek.

Jaskier chuckled, his blue eyes crinkling, his shoulders sagging in blatant relief. Geralt’s eyes also crinkled. He remained silent and pressed a hand to Jaskier’s lower back as Jaskier planted a noisy kiss on their smiling baby’s cheek.

“That’s me,” Jaskier murmured, pressing his cheek to Szymon’s, rocking them from side to side. “Dadda.”

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

For weeks after that, Geralt was perplexed by Jaskier’s denial of their baby son’s first word. Hadn’t Szymon said Dadda to Jaskier? Hadn’t the touch to his cheek meant that Szymon understood the meaning of what he’d said to Jaskier?

“No, he did not,” Jaskier retorted, glowering at Geralt, hugging their napping baby boy close to his chest with both arms. “That was _not_ his first word. End of discussion!”

In the distant past, Geralt would probably have lost his cool at this point, and snapped at Jaskier for not allowing a discussion to occur. He truly could not comprehend why Jaskier was so _obstinate_ about this. It was as if Jaskier had some other word in mind for their baby son’s first—but no one could determine what that word would be. Not even said baby.

Right?

Geralt let out a heavy sigh, then said, “Fine. That was not his first word.”

Jaskier gave him an exaggerated, smug nod. He rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t upset, nor was he discouraged. If anything, he was more curious than ever about Jaskier’s stubbornness over this. If Jaskier didn’t want Dadda to be their baby boy’s first word, what _did_ Jaskier want for that?

Six days later, in Szymon’s ninth month of life, the answer was bestowed upon Geralt during a late breakfast.

“Tah-bah-bah-dah.”

He, Jaskier, and their baby boy were the only ones present in the dining room. Yennefer and Ciri were somewhere else in the manor, most likely in one of the sorceress’s workrooms for another magic training session. Ciri was apparently learning to manipulate space. There was the chance that Ciri could also manipulate time itself, and Geralt was still at a loss for words that his Child Surprise could become one of the most powerful mages on the Continent someday.

By Melitele’s tits, was he the father of _two_ supremely magical children?

Perhaps he should save that for contemplation on another day, when the baby of the two wasn’t attempting to explain the enigmatic workings of the world to him.

“Tah-bah!”

Szymon was sitting upright on a flat cushion on the dining table, dressed in a light grey, knitted sweater and pants. Geralt sat in a chair facing his baby boy, gripping a bowl of chopped-up blueberries and cherries in his left hand, a spoon in his right hand. Jaskier sat perpendicular to him, munching on crackers and an assortment of smoked cheeses.

Jaskier was staring at them both with eyes that seemed to gleam with—anticipation?

Anticipation of what, Geralt could not guess. Perhaps their son would tell him.

With crinkled eyes and quirked lips, he murmured to Szymon, “What magical secrets are you trying to tell me, hm?”

Szymon replied with another series of random sounds, waving chubby fists in the air.

“Tah-bah-bah!”

Geralt scooped up some blueberries from the bowl, then carefully maneuvered the full spoon towards his baby boy’s mouth.

“Tah-tah!”

Geralt’s hand froze in the space between him and Szymon. He stared at his ebullient baby boy with widening eyes, his jaw dropping in surprise. Had he—had he imagined that? Did his son just—

He glanced at Jaskier, but Jaskier wasn’t looking at him. Jaskier was pressing a fist to his pursed lips while hugging himself around the waist with his other arm. Jaskier’s crinkled eyes glistened as they gazed at their baby boy.

Their beautiful, sweet baby boy, who reached out to grasp Geralt’s hand with a small one still so chubby. Who stared up at him with a winsome smile, and parted those dewy, pink lips, and—

“Tata.”

It was one word. Just a word, a two-syllable word that countless babies on this Continent had uttered to their own fathers for countless times, countless years. But the plump, white-haired baby who sat in front of him was _his_ baby. His baby, with large eyes that were amber like his and blue like Jaskier’s, with a little nose that was an amalgam of his and Jaskier’s, with a smile that was the best of his and Jaskier’s.

His miraculous baby son, the very best of him and Jaskier, who just spoke his first word in life—to call him father.

Geralt lowered the spoon of blueberries and the bowl of fruits onto the dining table. Something in his aching chest had surged up into his throat, clogging it, beating hard in it with a devastating emotion. He could clearly see Szymon, but everything else was awash with a stinging wetness. His hands were steady when they gently held Szymon under those chubby arms. His baby boy made grabby hands for him as he lifted him off the table, and those small hands clutched at his linen shirt when he hugged their treasured possessor tight to his chest.

“Thank you, my son,” he rasped into silken hair that was white just like his.

A mellow chuckle flowed from him when Szymon let out a high-pitched squeal but snuggled into his chest, satisfied to be exactly where he was. He raised his head to look at Jaskier.

Jaskier was now crossing his arms over his chest, his spine straight, his shoulders firm under a red-and-teal doublet. But Geralt could see that Jaskier’s eyes were as welled up as his own. Jaskier, his beloved mate who must have trained their baby boy for weeks to say Tata as his first word. A gift beyond price to him.

Jaskier sniffed hard, then swiped a hand across his eyes. Then he crossed his arms over his chest again. Glowered at Geralt, even as his lower jaw quivered and his dried, wide eyes twinkled, and exclaimed, “I’m not crying! _You_ are!”

Buoyant, deep laughter resonated through the grandiose dining room. Geralt had never heard it before, but it sounded so familiar and yet so unusual, as if it was a nostalgic echo from another life he’d lived a hundred years ago. There was no darkness, no pain, no self-loathing in it. There was only contentment.

Was it Jaskier who was laughing so?

Geralt glanced at Jaskier to see Jaskier sitting quietly, gazing at him with crinkled, tender eyes that glistened again. Memorizing the very sight of him—and the sound of his buoyant, deep laughter that emanated from his throbbing chest, from his grinning mouth.

Oh, he was the one laughing so.

He was the one who lifted their smiling, squealing baby boy into the air, who drew him back down to kiss those rosy, round cheeks without hesitation, without fear.

He was just a man, just a father, who remembered all over again what it meant to be happy.

“Tata,” Szymon murmured, pressing one of those small, gentle hands on his streaked cheek.

“Yes, that’s me,” Geralt rasped, awed by the miracle of being able to say these words at all, and have them be true. “Your Tata.”

And then he hugged Szymon to his chest, shut his eyes, and released that buoyant, deep laughter again in accompaniment with Jaskier’s chuckle, with their perfect baby son’s giggle. Because he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next coda: After a successful monster hunt, Geralt tells his old friend and fellow witcher, Eskel, that he's a father, and how his miraculous baby son came to be.


	14. Coda #4: A Good Look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for officially giving this story over 2000 kudos! ❤️💛💙 Y'all are amazing, and I love you. This story has also officially passed the 100k-word mark! If you'd told me just six months ago that I would write over 100k words of Geraskier love, I wouldn't have believed you ... mostly because I hadn't known The Witcher even existed. 
> 
> Finally, another witcher appears in this story! I think those of you who love a close friendship between Eskel and Geralt will enjoy this one. ☺️ As of posting this, I know Netflix has officially cast an actor for the role of Eskel on the show--but my Eskel is from the video games:  
>    
> 
> 
> I've written this coda in such a way that even those unfamiliar with him will not be lost in details. But if you'd like to know more about him, [here is his wiki page](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Eskel).

Geralt’s vital friendship with Eskel had begun with them swinging wooden swords at each other in Kaer Morhen over ninety years ago. They’d both been dark-haired then, but he couldn’t remember what color their eyes had been before the witcher trials they had undergone together. Like him, Eskel’s earliest memories were of a mother who was nothing more than a faded, faceless phantom, who had also left him at the foot of Kaer Morhen. Eskel at least had the memory of his mother singing to him—something that Geralt had envied then, for it meant that Eskel’s mother had loved him once.

Eskel had been an enduring golden spark of light on the black, ever-unfurling scroll of his existence from the moment they’d met. They had not only endured and survived the trials together, but gleefully jumped headlong into childish delinquencies that would provoke Vesemir into whipping them with a leather strap. Eskel never regretted a single one, and neither did he. One of those silly bouts of mischievousness had, to his amusement, been responsible for Eskel’s lasting obsession with bumblebees.

Tying that fat, huge forest bumblebee to a jug, and guffawing at its antics until they were rolling on the stone floor was one of his most cherished memories in life.

Almost every winter since they started walking the path of a witcher, they would meet again at Kaer Morhen to wait out the cold with Vesemir, drink their arses off to their successful contracts, and speak with low, reflective voices about their fallen comrades. After Vesemir, calm, patient, and reliable Eskel was the fellow witcher who Geralt trusted most.

It was rather ironic, then, that he was now so tongue-tied in front of his lifelong friend who was also his brother in all the ways that counted.

“You can imagine, Geralt, what I felt when she spread her legs and showed me the proof of her claims,” Eskel was saying to him between big bites of grilled salmon and an enormous chicken pie. “She had _two_ vaginas! She’d really meant it!”

He and Eskel were in a tavern stuffing their faces with much-needed food after hunting and slaying a vicious pack of wargs that had terrorized this small town in Aedirn. The wargs had killed a young man several days ago, and his unfortunate death had been the catalyst for the town chief to seek a witcher’s service. Luck had been on the chief’s side, for Eskel and Geralt were passing through at the time, two days after taking down a giant basilisk together elsewhere.

That basilisk had been the reason Geralt had left Jaskier and their ten-month-old baby boy in Yennefer’s magically-protected manor five days ago. He missed them with an intensity that was beyond description: Szymon had called him Tata, and waved a chubby hand at him without needing Jaskier’s aid, before he’d ridden Roach through the portal.

Sooner or later, he had to tell Eskel about them.

There was no better time than the present—if only his stupid mouth worked to say the necessary words instead of cramming itself full of chicken pie.

“I kept telling her that, no, witchers do _not_ have two cocks! I still have no idea where she’d heard that.” Eskel shook his head with a sigh. “She was so disappointed when I dropped my trousers. A lesser man would have crumbled under the pout of those lovely, red-stained lips.” Eskel’s scarred albeit handsome face crinkled with a roguish smile. “But she wasn’t disappointed for long.”

Geralt’s lips tremored. He shook his head with fondness, and scooped up another big morsel of pie into his mouth—and almost choked on it when Eskel kicked his shin under the table.

“Come on! Out with it!” Eskel squinted at him with amber eyes that were so much like his own. “You’ve been dying to tell me something for _days_. I’ve done my share of talking about myself. It’s your turn!”

Geralt took his time to chew and swallow. He glanced at Eskel with what Jaskier had described as his “lethal puppy eyes”, but they didn’t affect his fellow witcher one bit. Eskel’s outwardly stern expression was emphasized by that long, semi-circular scar that ran from the right corner of his lips and up his cheek to his ear. If Eskel did not have that scar, or that dark, middle-split hair, people would easily mistake them for blood brothers.

“Geralt, this is the part where you start talking instead of pretending to be a fluffy sheepdog.”

Geralt glowered at Eskel and his twinkling amber eyes. He cleared his throat, lowered his eyes to his half-eaten meal, then raised his eyes again.

“I’m—a father,” he said, then cleared his throat a second time.

Eskel stared at him for a few seconds. Then, pointing a forefinger at him, those twinkling eyes crinkled with good humor while Eskel said, “You are improving with your jokes!” Eskel made a face and shrugged. “Yes, it took you ninety years, but still.”

“It’s not a joke.” Geralt pressed his lips together, then said, “I have—two children. A daughter I—adopted. And a son.”

Eskel now stared at him with narrowed, disbelieving eyes. Eskel’s scarred forearms were flat on the table, his hands loose, his metal spoon balanced on the rim of his plate. He leaned forward.

“Did you pick some random little girl off the streets?”

“No!” Geralt glared at Eskel, lowering his voice to whisper, “She’s—she’s a _princess_.”

Eskel quirked a dark eyebrow at him, suppressing what appeared to be an amused smile.

“By the gods, she’s already got you wrapped around her little finger, Geralt.”

Geralt gaped at the other witcher. He opened his mouth, then shut it a few seconds later. He glanced around the bustling tavern. Then, satisfied that no one was eavesdropping, he opened his mouth again and whispered, “No, I mean it! I found her alone after she fled from her city, and I took her under my wing as my child.”

The skin between Eskel’s eyebrows wrinkled in puzzlement. “But why?”

“Because—” Geralt’s chest heaved with a sigh. “Fucking destiny.”

He gave Eskel a very, very pointed look.

By this time, word had already spread from one end of the Continent to the other about the fall of Cintra to Nilfgaard. After every solo journey, Yennefer would update Geralt and Jaskier with the latest news about the world beyond the borders of the manor, in particular about the Nilfgaardian army’s pursuit of Ciri. She had cunningly fed false information into the vast gossip networks across the Continent since teleporting Geralt and Ciri to her manor and harboring them.

The current hearsay was, Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon was no longer anywhere on the Continent, and had escaped to a distant land by ship—and even Geralt of Rivia, who had last been seen over a year ago with her on the open roads, did not know where she’d gone.

It was probably why the Nilfgaardian army wasn’t descending upon him, and wasn’t going to go to the trouble of it any time soon: he’d single-handedly killed so many of its soldiers. There was also the Battle of Sodden Hill that had occurred months ago, an incredible confrontation between the Nilfgaardian army and the armies of Aedirn, Kaedwen, Redania, and Temeria, that had involved over a hundred thousand people. Over thirty thousand had been killed, including thirteen mages, some of whom had ties to Yennefer. When Yennefer had casually mentioned that she’d leapt into the _fun_ and almost died, Geralt nearly had a heart attack at the dinner table in full view of Ciri, Jaskier, and their gurgling baby son.

Nilfgaard had suffered a disgraceful defeat in that battle, and the war had ended with it. But Cintra remained under Nilfgaard’s reign, which meant that Ciri had to remain Yennefer’s charge, until she was ready to reclaim her throne.

And as far as anyone who hated Nilfgaard was concerned, Geralt had done his noble duty of safeguarding the Cintran princess until she could flee to a place where Nilfgaard couldn’t reach her. No one in this grateful town was going to betray him, or Eskel.

Still, Eskel would be the first person outside of Geralt’s ragtag family to have a hint of the truth. Eskel was also someone who would relate to the experience of destiny flinging a Child Surprise onto him: his conspicuous scar had been an accidental, gruesome gift from his own princess, Deidre Ademeyn, decades ago.

Sure enough, Eskel’s eyes widened with comprehension as he put two and two together. “Well, then.” He sat back and blinked. “She must have been quite a _surprise_ for you.”

Geralt snorted. “She was. I found out when her mother vomited in front of me.” He made a face at that, in recollection of the event as well as the reminder that Pavetta was dead along with the rest of Ciri’s family. Then his face softened. “But she is—a blessing, too.”

Eskel’s slight smile had a bittersweet edge to it. He’d told Geralt decades ago that, years after leaving Kaer Morhen, Deidre had sent him a letter with her seal on it, but he’d thrown it into the fire. Eskel had never spoken of her again since. Some wounds never healed, long after they had scarred over.

“So, your son.” Eskel raised an eyebrow. “He is also adopted.”

Geralt cleared his throat, then said, “Uhm. No. He’s mine.”

Eskel’s forehead creased in a confused frown. “What do you mean he’s yours?”

“My baby boy is _mine_.”

Eskel’s forehead smoothened, and his amber eyes gleamed with compassion. “Geralt. We can’t have children. We’re infertile, you know that.”

“I know.” Geralt clenched his hand around the handle of his spoon, pressing his lips together. He aimed those puppy eyes at Eskel once more. “But—he’s really mine, Eskel.”

Eskel was frowning in confusion again. “How?”

“Magic.”

“What? _Magic?_ ” Eskel shook his head, not in denial of Geralt’s answer, but in wonder at the possibility. “Is there really magic so powerful?”

Geralt let go of the spoon and rested his hands on the table. He sucked in a breath, then replied, “If it’s an ancient tree god’s magic, yes.”

Eskel stared at him for a full, silent minute.

“An—ancient tree god.” Eskel blinked. “You’re telling me that an _ancient_ _tree god_ gave you your son.”

Geralt lowered his eyes to the table and nodded once. Eskel leaned forward again. When he spoke, his voice was full of awe.

“So, this tree god—knocked up a woman with your seed, somehow?”

Geralt stared at the table and cleared his throat.

“Not a woman,” he replied with a small voice.

He could feel Eskel’s unblinking, uncomprehending stare on his face.

“I—don’t understand.”

“Uhm.” Geralt raised his eyes to gaze at Eskel. “The tree god made a man pregnant.”

Eskel’s wide eyes stared on at Geralt. “A man.”

“Yes.”

“A man.” Eskel’s mouth worked in soundless shapes for a few seconds. “A man, who—can’t possibly get pregnant. Because men don’t have the organs for the job.”

“This particular man did. Because—” Geralt grimaced, knowing how mad his following words were going to sound. “The tree god gave him those organs.”

Eskel’s mouth worked in more soundless shapes.

“But—why?”

“Because it wasn’t just any man,” Geralt replied, pinching the skin between his eyes that he squeezed shut. A headache was beginning to develop deep in his brain from this conversation.

“By the gods,” Eskel gasped, and Geralt lowered his hand to see his old friend gaping at him like a fish out of water. “Was it _you?!_ ”

Geralt felt his entire face suffuse with heat. The vivid image of a pregnant Jaskier rushed to the forefront of his mind: Jaskier, reclined on a pile of pillows, that embroidered tunic yanked up to the swell of a gravid belly, staring up at him with those large, blue eyes. Those dark pink, plump lips pleading for him to kiss them again.

“No! It was—” He rested his elbows on the table and pressed his fingers over his eyes. He let out a low sigh. “It was Jaskier.”

Eskel gasped aloud.

“Jaskier? As in, your big-mouthed, hairy bard companion?!”

“Yes,” he muttered.

“But _why?_ ”

Geralt lowered his forearms to the table to see Eskel looking even more shocked, waving his hands around in the air.

“Geralt, are you telling me that an ancient tree god fucked your bard?!”

Geralt had to muster all his willpower to not lean down and bury his red face in his meal.

“ _No!_ ”

“Then how did it happen?!”

Geralt’s shoulders slumped. He picked up his spoon and dug it into what was left of the pie on his plate.

“I—” He shoved the gigantic spoonful of pie into his mouth and chewed on it, swallowed it. “I wished for it.”

Eskel gaped at him with wide, stunned eyes and parted lips. “You—wished for an ancient tree god to knock up your big-mouthed, hairy _male_ bard—with your baby.”

Geralt opened his mouth. Then he shut it, scowling at Eskel. Then he opened it again, to growl, “Yes.”

Eskel hesitantly raised a forefinger into the air and waved it about. His mouth opened and shut several times. Then he rested his elbow on the table and leaned his chin on his hand, staring at Geralt with a discombobulated frown. Then he raised his forefinger in the air again.

“Let’s go back,” he said, waving that forefinger around, “to the part about you being acquainted with an _ancient tree god_.”

For all the frustration Geralt was feeling, he couldn’t help the tremor of mirth through his lips. He couldn’t blame Eskel at all for being so—well, disoriented. He had fared much worse when he’d realized how Jaskier had become pregnant with his baby. He’d waited until Jaskier had fallen asleep, until after he’d caressed Jaskier’s luxuriant hair and smooth cheek, and was back in his own room in the manor to freak out.

By Melitele’s tits, Yennefer had probably laughed her arse off while listening in on him stomping around and yelling insults and nonsense at himself.

Geralt shook his head and said, “I can’t tell you where it happened. But it was completely unintentional. It chose to reveal itself to me.”

Eskel waved his hand around. “What, it just—popped out of nowhere, said hello, how do you do, and decided to knock up Jaskier with your baby?”

Geralt shut his eyes, then opened them at half-mast. “It—didn’t say hello. Or how do you do.”

If it wasn’t for the fact that he was the one being grilled here, Geralt would have laughed at Eskel’s utterly flummoxed expression.

“Okay.” Eskel let out a heavy sigh. “Okay. Let’s go back to the part about this ancient tree god making _anyone_ pregnant with your child.” Eskel shook his head in amazement. “Why would a god just do that, Geralt, even if you’d wished for it?” Eskel ran his fingers through his dark hair. “This isn’t a djinn we’re talking about here. This is a _god_. And I’m assuming, a fucking powerful one, to be able to do this.”

Geralt nodded in agreement.

“It—” He grimaced, feeling just like the boy he’d been in Kaer Morhen, swinging that wooden sword around and getting his arse kicked by a feisty Eskel. “It likes me.”

“It likes you,” Eskel muttered, straight-faced.

“Yes. It—has a crush on me.”

Oh, wonderful, all that heat was back in his cheeks.

Eskel stared at him.

“An ancient tree god,” Eskel said with a very calm, reasonable voice, “knocked up your big-mouthed, hairy, male bard with your baby boy, because you wished for it, and because said tree god has a crush on you.”

Geralt stared back at Eskel. He cleared his throat yet again, then said, “Yes.”

Eskel stared and stared at him.

“And pray tell, what did Jaskier think of all this?” Eskel raised his eyebrows. “I’m thinking he didn’t have much of a say regarding his _magical bun in the oven_.”

Geralt lowered his eyes. He poked at the chunks of chicken pie on his plate with his spoon, his shoulders slumped again.

“He didn’t know what had happened at first. Neither did I.” He scowled at himself. “He was the first to know, three months after I encountered the tree god. After he summoned Yennefer to examine him with her magic. He chose to keep the baby. But he—didn’t tell me.”

His scowl slipped away. In its place was a crestfallen expression.

“He made up a story that he didn’t want to travel with me anymore. That he wanted to live and work in Oxenfurt instead. And I—” He had to pause to submerge the guilt that still lingered in him over his past actions and words that Jaskier had forgiven him for long ago. “I didn’t question him. I told him I didn’t give a fuck what he did or where he went, and I walked away to meet with the mayor about a contract. And he took that as me wanting him gone for good.” He swallowed hard. “When it was the last thing I wanted. When it was the very last thing he ever wanted.”

He was acutely aware that he had never before said so much in one go to Eskel about his—feelings. Never _shared_ so much with such willingness. If he and Jaskier had not become lovers, he was certain he never would have: Jaskier was gradually changing him into a more vocal person. Into someone who understood the power of words, and was learning to wield them not as weapons, but as bridges to connect to another person.

“Let me guess,” Eskel murmured. “He had no idea that you’ve been in love with him for the last twenty years.”

It took Geralt’s brain ages to process what Eskel said. When it did, Geralt’s head and eyes snapped up, and he gaped at his old friend, feeling the floor beneath his feet fall far, far down. Eskel gave him a small, benign smile and shook his head.

“By the _gods_ , Geralt. Did it actually take you _twenty years_ to realize you’re in love with him?”

Geralt wasn’t sure the wooden bench was under his arse anymore. He wasn’t sure how he was still sitting here in front of Eskel, how the earth hadn’t already devoured him and his overwhelming mortification whole.

“What—” He blinked. “What do you—how—” He blinked again, harder. “You’ve—known all this time?” He frowned, still dumbfounded by Eskel’s observation. “But even I—took over ten—” He trailed into a dazed silence.

“Geralt, do you recall the winter of 1240?”

Geralt blinked several times at the abrupt shift in the conversation. “I—returned to Kaer Morhen. You were there, and so was Lambert.”

“Yes.” Eskel tilted his head and gave him a meaningful look. “But 1240 was also the year you met Jaskier, yes?”

Geralt nodded, curious to know where this was headed.

“Do you recall what you did that winter in Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed in contemplation. He stared down at the table surface between their plates. What had he done in Kaer Morhen in 1240? Most likely what he always had every time he returned to the place where he’d grown up from a boy into a witcher: training with his fellow witchers, drinking and eating and laughing with them, and talking with them while they all sat in front of the lit fireplace in the evening hall.

“You know what we do in Kaer Morhen every winter,” Geralt replied, shaking his head slowly.

Eskel was giving him that impish smile he knew so well.

“Oh no, my friend. That winter?” Eskel pointed a forefinger at him, still smiling. “ _That_ winter was the winter you could not stop ranting about that big-mouthed, hairy bard companion of yours!”

Even as Geralt’s jaw sagged, Eskel raised both hands in the air and repeatedly tapped his straightened fingers and thumbs together to suggest a babbling mouth.

“For the _whole season_ you were all Jaskier this and Jaskier that, why does Jaskier keep writing stupid songs about me, why does Jaskier wear those stupid trousers too small for him, why does Jaskier have those stupid blue eyes and that stupid big mouth and that stupid arms akimbo pose. Jaskier Jaskier _Jaskier!_ And no fewer than _thirty_ times, you loudly threatened to ‘stab that annoying little shit’ for gods know what.”

“I said no such things!” Geralt exclaimed, ignoring the heat radiating from his face.

“Did so!” Eskel pointed a forefinger at him again, waggling his eyebrows. “You were _very_ emphatic about wanting to _stab_ him over and over, if you get my drift.”

Geralt gaped at Eskel, his lips quivering, his hands clenched into fists on the table. He grabbed his three-quarter-full mug of ale and guzzled it all down. He slammed the empty mug on the table, then glared at Eskel, his lips an indiscernible line.

The glob of froth at the corner of his lips was not helping him to appear fierce in any way.

“Geralt.” Eskel’s lips tremored with mirth. “Lambert threatened to throw himself down the side of the mountain in the _dead of winter_ if you didn’t stop yammering about your massive crush. That’s how bloody obvious you were.”

Geralt sucked in his lips even more. It had the unintended effect of also sucking in that glob of froth. He widened his eyes and jabbed a forefinger at Eskel, and growled through his teeth, “He never said anything like that to my face!”

Most people, warrior or not, would have cowered in fright from him and his blazing eyes right now. But Eskel simply snorted and said, “Of course not! And we certainly never told you about our betting pool on when you and your bard were going to fuck!”

Once again, Geralt was struck speechless, his jaw sagging low, his eyes round with shock.

He squeaked, “We?”

“Of course!” Eskel raised his right hand and counted off each witcher with a finger. “Lambert betted on never, because he thought you were just going through a barmy phase after that drunken tryst of yours with that supremely voluptuous mermaid in Skellige. Vesemir betted on ten years, because he thought you would literally stab Jaskier with a knife first before reckoning that you actually wanted to stab him with your cock instead. And _I_ —”

Eskel’s face lit up with that roguish smile.

“I betted on twenty years, because I know you better than anyone else, and I reckoned that you wouldn’t even _know_ you felt anything for Jaskier for at least ten years or more. I was right!” He let out a gleeful chuckle. “ _Oh_ , they owe me _so_ much gold! I’m going to be a rich man this winter!”

Geralt was very, _very_ tempted to lean down and bury his fire-hot face in the remnants of his chicken pie, and never come back up for air. It would excuse him from ever having to face Vesemir again while knowing his mentor, his father figure in life, had _betted on his sex life_ , and _lost_.

He rested his elbows on the table and pressed his hands over his face instead. At least he didn’t have to see Eskel’s stupid, smug face anymore—

“But anyway, let’s go back to this ancient tree god fucking and knocking up your bard—”

Geralt slammed his arms back down on the table, and he bellowed, “There was _no_ tree fucking!”

A scandalized silence befell the whole tavern. All the other patrons stopped eating or talking, and stared at him with wide eyes. Even the bartender had frozen in place, one hand on the tap attached to a cask of ale, the other hand grasping an empty mug.

Geralt glared at them with full force and roared, “What?!”

Everyone except Eskel turned away from him in unison. The other patrons returned to their meals, muttering amongst themselves, and the bartender hastily filled the mug with ale to serve it to a blond man standing at the bar.

Geralt shut his eyes and let out a huff of annoyance. Brilliant, just brilliant—by the end of the week, he wasn’t going to be known in the North as Geralt of Rivia, or the White Wolf, anymore. Oh, no, he was going to be known henceforth as Geralt the Tree-Fucker. He could feel it in his gut—

“So, a tree god really _didn’t_ fuck your bard?”

Eskel’s scarred face was deceptively blank. His twinkling amber eyes gave him away.

“I regret ever talking to you,” Geralt growled.

Eskel squinted, rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers.

“To recapitulate: an ancient tree god popped up in front of you, said hello, how do you do, Geralt. Showed you what you really wanted in life, which was for your big-mouthed, hairy, male bard companion to bear your child so you would have a family with him, and boom! You made your wish, and the tree god gave your bard the necessary organs to make said wish come true—because it likes you and has a _crush_ on you.”

Geralt’s narrowed-eyed glare at the other witcher intensified, and he snarled, “I regret ever knowing you.”

Eskel’s face brightened with a boyish, genuine smile.

“No, you don’t. You love me too much, and your life would be dull shades of grey without me to flood it with my vibrant beauty.”

Geralt dropped his angry act and shook his head, pressing his twitching lips together. Eskel wasn’t wrong. Every part of the latter statement was true.

He was certain that Jaskier would consider Eskel a good friend too, when they inevitably met in the near future.

A comfortable lull ensued in their conversation. They ate the remainder of their meals, then ordered more ale. It was while they were sipping their fresh booze that Eskel asked with a solemn tone, “You really wished to have a baby with Jaskier? That much?”

Geralt lowered his eyes and stared down at his mug of ale, tilting it this way and that.

“No, I—I wished—” He frowned and said, “I don’t know what exactly I’d wished for. I hadn’t even known what was going on when I encountered the tree god. I thought it was a humongous oak tree and nothing more. I thought the whole thing had been—a peaceful dream.”

His frown waned into a pensive expression.

“But, like you said—the tree god had looked into my heart, and made me see what was really there, when I had been blind before.” His expression became one of bashfulness. “It had shown me a vision of Jaskier on a beach. Holding our baby son, and laughing together. And it—made me happy.”

The derisive laughter he expected from Eskel at that never came. He raised his eyes to look at Eskel—and saw Eskel gazing at him with crinkled, warm eyes.

“Geralt, my friend,” Eskel murmured. “Your greatest obstacle to happiness has always been yourself.”

Geralt blinked eyes wide with surprise. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

He blinked again when Eskel sat up, squared his shoulders, and arranged his facial features into an exaggerated scowl: lowered eyebrows, eyes narrowed, lips thinned into a downturned line of disgruntlement.

“Me am witcher,” Eskel growled with a low, gravelly voice. “Me have white hair and amber eyes. So me must be bad man. Big, scary monster. Me cannot be happy, so me must make sure never be happy.”

In this rare instance, Geralt sputtered very much like Jaskier would, rendered dumbstruck by Eskel’s impression of him. He reared up and jabbed a forefinger at Eskel, growling, “I do not speak like that!”

Eskel merrily jabbed a forefinger at him in return and drawled, “You didn’t deny any of that!”

Geralt glared and banged a fist on the table. He let out a rumbling growl from deep within his chest.

To his chagrin, it affected Eskel in no way whatsoever.

“Here’s another question, hm?” Eskel took another sip from his mug of ale, then lowered the mug onto the table. He licked his lips. “Did this tree god set a price for making your wish come true? Maybe, oh, I don’t know, threaten to stop you if you tried to _not_ be happy?”

Yet again, Geralt could merely gape at Eskel, his shoulders slumping, his hands resting on the table top.

“How—”

Eskel nodded like a sage. If he had a long beard, he would be stroking it.

“Of course the tree god did. Because that’s the only way you would stick to being happy for any stretch of time. Yes?” Eskel gave him a pointed glance. “Even after it gave you your heart’s utmost wish—the man you love, and a baby boy who is half of you and half of him.”

Geralt could only stare at his old, lifelong friend, and wonder when the calm, kind, reliable man had also become so astute about him.

“It took an ancient tree god knocking up your bard companion, the man you’ve loved for twenty years, with your baby _and_ threatening to stop you from _not_ being happy, for you to finally accept that you can be happy.” Eskel shook his head. “Maybe, just maybe, Geralt, you have a problem with being happy. Hmm?”

Geralt could have told Eskel to fuck off. He could have scowled again, and growled again, and denied the truth of Eskel’s statements. He could have behaved the way he’d used to, before he had almost lost Jaskier due to churlish, cruel words that he hadn’t meant. Long before he had held a blanched, boneless Jaskier in his arms, watching his beloved mate’s blood flow out of the precious body that had gifted him with their son.

But he didn’t.

He gazed back at Eskel with unguarded eyes, and replied, “Not anymore.”

Eskel’s amber eyes crinkled and gleamed with a warm light that reminded Geralt of a beam of sunshine streaking through dissipating storm clouds.

“Happiness is a good look on you,” Eskel murmured, his lips curling up in an affectionate smile. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment? To see you truly happy, and at peace with yourself?”

Geralt was unashamed to acknowledge the swelling of his chest and the prickle of his constricting throat at Eskel’s sincere declaration brimming with brotherly love. If there was no one else in this world like Jaskier, there was also no one else in this world like Eskel in his prolonged life. No one else who would understand him like Eskel did. No one else who had looked at him over ninety years ago in Kaer Morhen, and walked up to him with those wooden swords in hand, and instantly deemed him friend for all time.

Eskel’s hand was on the table. He reached for it and gave it a firm squeeze, for he was always more a man of action than of words, and actions had always spoken clearer to others on his behalf.

Eskel kicked his foot under the table. Eskel’s affectionate smile had spread across that handsome, familiar face, and it spoke clearer to Geralt than any words could.

“Come on, _out with it_ , you overgrown oaf! I know you’ve been dying to tell me everything about your son from the moment we saw each other again.”

Geralt rolled his eyes—but Eskel was telling the truth once more. With quirked lips, he reached down for one of the small leather pouches attached to the belt of his trousers. He opened it and carefully withdrew a folded piece of paper from it. He was just as careful in unfolding it despite Yennefer’s magic preserving it in its pristine state. He flattened it on the table surface, the ink drawing on it facing Eskel.

“His name is Szymon,” Geralt said, gazing down at his favorite drawing of his little, sweet baby boy. “He, uhm, he has white hair like me.”

With black ink and elegant lines, Jaskier had depicted their son sitting upright on grass strewn with flower petals, with only a long linen cloth wrapped around his plump lower body. Those chubby hands that would touch Geralt’s face so gently were squishing more petals in the air. Those tufts of thick, white hair swept up like the waves of the sea. Those beautiful, amber-and-blue eyes gazed at the viewer with innocence and ebullience. That broad smile that never failed to make Geralt smile too bunched up those rosy, round cheeks, and displayed those two tiny, bottom front teeth.

“Aww,” Eskel cooed, tracing the curve of Szymon’s round cheek with a forefinger. “Look at him! He has your eyes.”

Geralt’s lips quirked up even more. His chest throbbed, but it wasn’t from pain.

“His eyes are blue like Jaskier’s, but also amber like mine.”

“ _Aww_.”

Geralt pointed a forefinger at his own right eye. He drew a circle around it and said, “The amber color is around the pupil. It blends outward with the blue.”

Eskel smiled softly at him, then down at the drawing.

“I’ve never seen eyes like that. It must be quite a sight with white hair like yours.” Eskel let out a good-natured chuckle, then looked at Geralt again. “How old is he?”

“Ten months.” On its own volition, Geralt’s smile expanded. “He’s just—he laughs at everything. He finds everything so—new. So wondrous. His whole face lights up when he eats blueberries, and peaches, and cooked potatoes. And he smiles and looks so captivated every time Jaskier sings.” He gazed down at the drawing again. “When Jaskier drew that, we were in the gardens. Szymon laughed so much every time I gathered the petals and flung them up in the air around him. It was as if—he was the happiest person in the world.”

The throbbing in Geralt’s chest increased, but it still wasn’t from pain.

“He’s starting to speak,” he murmured, tracing the delicate swirls of his baby boy’s hair in the drawing. “His first word was—he called me Tata.” His cheeks were aching for some inexplicable reason. “Before I met with you, he called me Tata again. And waved at me on his own, and smiled.” He tapped his finger twice on the drawing. “Just like that.”

Eskel didn’t say anything, long enough that Geralt raised his head to look at the other witcher. Eskel’s amber eyes were still crinkled. They still gleamed with that warm, priceless light.

“Happiness truly is a good look on you, brother.”

Geralt shook his head and bowed it, but his cheeks still ached, and his lips were still curved up and stretched in the rarest of expressions on his face. He raised his head after a few seconds, parting his lips to speak.

That was when he noticed all the other patrons in the tavern silently staring at him with wide eyes again.

He straightened up on the bench and squared his shoulders. Glared at them with full force and eyes even wider than theirs, and roared, “ _WHAT?!_ ”

They stared on at him for another three tense seconds. Then, in unison, they turned back to their drinks and meals, muttering amongst themselves.

One man said, “That’s not a doppler!”

Another said, “Eh, it’s him.”

And another said, “That’s the crotchety witcher, all right.”

Eskel had slapped a hand over his own mouth, and his broad shoulders shook with mirth even when Geralt leveled that ferocious glare at him. Nothing he did ever intimidated Eskel. It was frustrating as hell, especially when Eskel waved a forefinger at him and said between soundless chuckles, “By the end of the week—you’ll be known as—Geralt the _Smiling Tree-Fucker_ —”

To Geralt’s exasperation, a hard kick to the tickled witcher’s shin did _nothing_. He cursed his own twitching, traitorous lips and blamed Eskel’s burst of infectious guffaws for it.

“Geralt,” Eskel blurted out after quietening and catching his breath.

Geralt squinted and growled, “What?”

“Since you’re so well-acquainted with this ancient tree god—”

“I’m not asking it to give you two cocks, Eskel,” Geralt retorted, deadpan.

Eskel stared at him for a moment, then grinned at him with crinkled, twinkling eyes.

“You _are_ improving with your jokes!”

One corner of Geralt’s lips quirked up in a smirk, and he said, “And no, I am not asking it to give you a gigantic bumblebee to ride on, either.”

It was Geralt’s turn for his broad shoulders to shake with silent mirth as Eskel sputtered with genuine outrage at him. Over eighty years, and Eskel was _still_ so obsessed with the fluffy, black-and-yellow insects. If a religion dedicated to bumblebees existed in the Continent, Eskel would surely be its high priest, extolling their cute, fat bodies, and their tiny, translucent wings, and their ordained role in saving the whole world just by existing—like he was doing so now.

“I am _telling_ you, bees are the reason all of us are still alive! If bees disappeared off the face of this world, we would have mere _years_ to live!” Eskel ranted, jabbing the table with the tip of his forefinger. “When bees go from flower to flower, they’re collecting nectar and pollen, and it is this transfer of pollen that ensures the plants reproduce. And when plants reproduce, we have crops that feed us. All our fruits, nuts, seeds, spices, and vegetables exist because of bees!”

Geralt nodded once at him.

“I am still,” Geralt said, deadpan, “not going to ask the tree god to give you a gigantic bumblebee to ride on. What would Scorpion think? Do you want to hurt her feelings?”

Eskel sputtered again, then exclaimed, “How dare you! They would immediately become the best of friends!” Eskel raised his eyes high up in dramatic wonder, his hands also raised and spread open. “Imagine my gorgeous Kaedweni war horse standing next to a gargantuan, harnessed bumblebee.” Eskel gasped. “And her name would be— _Buzz_.”

Geralt shook his head slowly from side to side as Eskel jabbered on about the magnificence of an army of gargantuan, harnessed bumblebees at his command. He allowed his twitching lips to expand into a closed-lipped smile, and he gazed at the other witcher with amber eyes that were equally warm and filled with gratitude for this lifelong bond between them.

Yes, when Eskel and Jaskier inevitably met in the near future, his two dearest friends in his prolonged life were going to get along just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I don't mind laughing at myself and my wacky ideas now and then. 🤓
> 
> And Eskel isn't wrong about bees: they really play an essential role in keeping our world and humanity alive. [Their existence is under severe threat](https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/2020/02/bumblebees-going-extinct-climate-change-pesticides/) due to climate change, pesticides, and habitat loss. But there is still hope to save them. 🐝
> 
> You can see how adorable fat bumblebees are [here](https://66.media.tumblr.com/01fdb46a63aefe17d3f7839163c5ca65/tumblr_og8l3qlIzL1qf9djko1_540.jpg) and [here](https://66.media.tumblr.com/288d972ac86eb677426c6d984acc1afa/tumblr_og8l3qlIzL1qf9djko2_540.jpg).
> 
> In the next coda: Geralt, Jaskier and their baby boy visit an old friend in Caed Myrkvid.


	15. Art: "Everything to Me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yeah, I'm an artist too. 🖌🎨 ~~Surprise, muthafucker!~~
> 
> Technical info: Done from start to finish in Clip Studio Paint Pro, with photo reference for the pose. 
> 
> I apologize for the big watermark in the center of the image, but I was strongly encouraged to do this due to "reposters" on Twitter and other social media who steal art and such crappy shenanigans. A pox on art thieves! Obviously, please do not repost this anywhere else. 
> 
> (I recommend viewing the image on a computer screen or tablet instead of a phone to see the details. 🤓)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's titled so because you're gazing through Geralt's eyes at Jaskier and their baby boy.


	16. Art: "Personification of Perfection"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An illustration for [chapter 9](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612626/chapters/58257556) of the story. I'd been chomping at the bit to draw this particular soft moment ever since I wrote the chapter--so here it is!
> 
> Technical info: Done from start to finish in Clip Studio Paint Pro, with references to this beautiful bastard of a witcher's face, my gosh. The background was this lovely, free image of dandelions in a verdant garden.
> 
> Again, I apologize for the big watermark in the center of the image, but it's a necessary evil. 🤓 Please don't repost this anywhere else.

> When he stepped back, he found himself spellbound by how the delicate flowers accentuated his witcher’s rugged features, and somehow made him appear even more beautiful at the same time.
> 
> Oh, _oh_ , there his heart went once again, falling head over heels in love with this amber-eyed, white-haired personification of perfection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, his shirt is white in that chapter. 😆 But I wanted the focus to be on his face, and the white shirt didn't provide the contrast I wanted for this piece.
> 
> The next update will definitely be a coda about Geralt, Jaskier, and their baby visiting Caed Myrkvid!


	17. Coda #5: For Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, I've been feeling unwell these past two weeks, hence the slow updates for this story and also for [The Breaking of the Shell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490438). My apologies for that, and thank you all for your ongoing patience. ☺️ This coda clocks in at 8000+ words! 
> 
> By the way, I just signed up on Twitter: [@giddytf2](https://twitter.com/giddytf2)
> 
> If you're on Twitter too, and/or if you can recommend any Geraskier artists and writers to follow, feel free to let me know! I'll probably use it to post snippets of codas, new Geraskier fics and updates, and Geraskier art. 🎨🖌🎭
> 
> Soundtrack: [The Chronicles of Narnia OST - The Wardrobe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QT3Nm2tytLg) (the first 2 1/2 minutes of it)

Shafts of sunlight streaked through the cool mist that shrouded the magical, tall forest of alders and beeches surrounding Geralt, Jaskier, and their eleven-month-old baby boy. Geralt felt down his spine the tingling sensation of Yennefer’s portal shrinking shut behind them. To his left, Jaskier shuddered for a second at the pop of the portal vanishing.

“Ugh, it felt the same way the last time I walked through one,” Jaskier said, hoisting their quiet son higher up on his chest. “Like a thousand fingers digging into your skin and you can’t scratch them off.”

Geralt’s lips quirked up at the rather apt description.

“I’ve never liked portals,” he replied, running a hand down Szymon’s little back. “But I’ll take it over traveling for weeks on the open road with a baby.”

Jaskier leaned his upper body back to look at Szymon with crinkled, soft eyes.

“Auntie Yennefer is spoiling us so much, isn’t she, sweetheart?”

Szymon didn’t respond. He gazed at his surroundings with wide, amber-and-blue eyes while sucking on a chubby fist. Geralt’s small smile expanded into a fond one at the sight: this was the very first time that his son had journeyed into the world beyond the borders of Yennefer’s luxurious manor. Everything, from the gnarled, moss-coated trees to the swirling mist to the muffled chirrups of the forest’s native birds, was new to his curious baby.

Caed Myrkvid was unlike any other forest on the Continent.

But only he and his ragtag family knew that in its heart lived an ancient tree god older than the world itself. A generous and mysterious god that, to Geralt’s perpetual incomprehension, had a crush on a witcher like him. A crush strong enough that it had resulted in him and Jaskier becoming fathers to an extraordinary miracle of a baby who was the best of them both combined.

It seemed only fair that the three of them were dressed in the finest outfits they had on hand to meet the tree god again: for once, he wore an embroidered, high-collared, jewel-studded doublet like Jaskier did, although his was burgundy in color while Jaskier’s was teal and red. Jaskier had handpicked all their clothes from the grand armoire, including their matching beige shirts, and their baby boy’s knitted, dandelion-yellow sweater and trousers, capped with itty-bitty blue socks. Jaskier had spent almost a week before this excursion sewing numerous shiny beads and knitted flowers onto the little sweater.

Geralt should have felt vulnerable with the lack of his armor and swords, but he didn’t. It had felt wrong, perhaps even profane, to rig himself out in his armor and arm himself with any weapons. Szymon had apparently agreed, for his baby boy had given him an adorable frown while the three of them were getting dressed in their bedroom this morning. Had pointed a plump forefinger at his sheathed swords propped up against the wall, and squealed, “No!”

After “Tata” and “Dadda”, “no” was Szymon’s favorite word to say—especially whenever Jaskier attempted to feed him mushy green peas. His son had good tastes.

“So,” Jaskier murmured. “Where do we go from here?”

Geralt glanced around at the mist and the scores of trees that encircled them. Yennefer had visited this place many more times than he had, but she knew no better than he did how to seek out the tree god.

 _You’re the one who’s feeling a tug in your chest_ , she’d said to him days ago with that tiny smirk he knew well. _If the tree god is truly calling for you, you’ll meet it sooner or later when you’re there_.

She had a good point.

The problem was, he didn’t know whether to stay put, or whether they should walk through the forest until they encountered the tree god. What if that took days? What if he was wrong, and the peculiar tugging sensation he’d felt deep in his chest these past weeks, that kept aiming his thoughts towards Caed Myrkvid, was just his imagination?

What if the tree god wasn’t here, and had decided to not manifest itself again for another thousand years?

Geralt clenched his right hand around the strap of the leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He might not have brought his weapons with him, but he and Jaskier had packed dried food and full waterskins to last them several days. Most of the food consisted of their baby boy’s favorite pastries and slices of fruits.

He let out a long breath through his nose, then muttered, “I don’t know. I just—” He pressed his lips tight. “I just know we have to be here. The three of us.”

He turned his head to gaze at Jaskier. Jaskier was gazing at him with those large blue eyes that shone under the sunlight, that were as warm. Jaskier wasn’t upset with him. Jaskier had brought his lute along, but he also wore a one-shouldered cloth sling to carry their baby son whenever his arms became fatigued.

Their baby son—who had twisted inside the sling and against Jaskier’s chest to gaze forward, pointing a chubby forefinger in a seemingly random direction into the forest.

Geralt silently stared down at Szymon with Jaskier, their faces deadpan. Then they raised their heads and stared at each other, their faces still deadpan.

“So,” Jaskier said. “Do you think he really knows where to go?”

Szymon wriggled around and smacked a chubby hand on Jaskier’s chest. The enthusiastic slaps prompted Jaskier to yelp, “Oi! No hitting Dadda, darling, please,” and Geralt to suck his lips in to restrain the chuckle that threatened to erupt through them. Their baby boy wriggled around to face forward once more. Then, with a high-pitched squeal, he pointed in the same direction into the forest.

Geralt permitted a soundless huff of laughter to escape his nose. He gazed at Szymon’s round, sweet profile—and realized that of course his son would know where to go. His son was a miraculous being created with the tree god’s immensely powerful magic.

Wouldn’t they be connected in some magical way or another because of that?

He stroked the back of his baby boy’s delicate, white-haired head, then murmured, “Lead the way, little hero.”

Jaskier kissed their baby’s rosy cheek, and smiled softly when a chubby hand stroked his chest where said chubby hand had smacked it.

They set off into the forest with sedate steps. Even with his heightened witcher senses, it took Geralt a while to notice the leaf-hidden soil path under their feet, a smooth one wide enough for four men to walk abreast. If not for Szymon’s guidance, he would not have seen it from where they’d stood after exiting the portal. It was a path rarely trodden. It was possible that he and Jaskier were the first men in millennia to walk upon it.

The mist seemed to accompany them like a living thing. It never passed over the boundaries of the path that meandered between the trees. He had no idea where they were going. He had no idea if this had been the same path he’d inadvertently staggered down that fateful night when he and Jaskier had stayed here, that fateful night their baby had been conceived in Jaskier’s magically-transformed body—

Geralt heard the dull thud of a solid object colliding into another at ground level. In a split second, with a swift turn of his head, he realized that it was the toe of Jaskier’s boot colliding into a tree root embedded in the path.

Jaskier let out a squawk. Before Jaskier could fall flat on his face, Geralt seized Jaskier’s flailing right arm with his right hand and hauled his beloved mate’s body to his with his left hand. Szymon, secure in the cloth sling and support of Jaskier’s left arm, simply blinked up at them.

“Ow,” Jaskier mumbled, grimacing, opening and closing his right hand.

Geralt didn’t understand why Jaskier was in pain, until he glanced down and saw how tight his hand was around Jaskier’s forearm. A forearm that was bruised from their last hand-to-hand combat training session back at the manor.

He instantly loosened his grip and rubbed Jaskier’s forearm in apology. It was his fault Jaskier had bruises all over in the first place, healing though they were. Even on the grass in the gardens, even with him controlling his witcher strength, every slam and tumble Jaskier experienced had left a mark on that pale, smooth skin. He couldn’t afford to coddle Jaskier in this. Toughening Jaskier up could mean the difference between Jaskier surviving a vicious fight with an opponent—and dying.

His beloved human mate was so fragile compared to him. So easily taken away from him, by so many factors out of his control.

“Are you all right?”

Jaskier hugged their baby boy tight to his chest and kissed that high, soft forehead that Geralt also enjoyed kissing and nuzzling.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Jaskier replied, rubbing Szymon’s back. “Are you all right, sweetheart? Hm?”

Szymon burbled up at them in that indecipherable baby language that nonetheless captivated Jaskier who seemed to genuinely listen to every enigmatic sound. Again, Szymon wriggled around in the sling to point ahead. Jaskier hugged him tight a second time, then glanced at Geralt with a small smile.

“Look at him, he’s so excited to meet the tree god.”

Geralt gazed at their baby son. At the side tilt of that precious, white-haired head, at those amber-and-blue eyes staring ahead with sharp focus. It was the same earnest look Geralt would see whenever Jaskier was telling their baby a bedtime story overflowing with details.

Was Szymon listening to something that neither he or Jaskier could hear?

All he heard with his heightened hearing were Jaskier’s heartbeat as well as Szymon’s, and the typical cacophony of forest noises. The noises were a good sign: they indicated that there were no large predators lurking in the mist. The forest would have been deathly hushed otherwise.

Geralt grasped Jaskier’s right hand with his left. Jaskier gave his hand a squeeze. He adjusted the strap of the leather satchel over his shoulder.

They resumed sauntering down the path, following their baby boy’s directions every time that gentle, plump forefinger pointed the way. Geralt still couldn’t tell whether this had been the same path that had led him to meeting the ancient tree god for the first time. Perhaps there were countless paths through Caed Myrkvid that led to the tree god, and sometimes, a path was entrusted to a select few. The very few the tree god loved.

He was calm and collected when he felt something silken brush past his cheek. He thought it was a breeze, but it seemed to have—intent. It seemed alive, as if it was an invisible hand caressing his face. He smelled fragrant flowers in its trail. He felt the warmth of the sunshine cascading upon him, Jaskier, and their son.

He felt safe. He was at utter peace.

He heard the piercing snap of a twig underfoot.

“What was that?” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt halted and drew Jaskier and their baby closer to him. He glanced around, but saw nothing other than the ever-present mist and the looming trees. Szymon wriggled in the cloth sling until he was facing the left side of the path, then pointed upward. Geralt followed the direction with his gaze, tilting his head back, but it was Jaskier’s gasp of surprise that forewarned him he was about to lay eyes upon something even a hundred-year-old witcher like him had never seen before.

From out of the mist, at a height of almost nineteen feet from the ground, emerged a narrow, horse-like head with large, bulging eyes. Unlike a horse, it had two furry, upright horns that ended in bald knobs between its pointed ears. It had a cream-colored coat mottled with brown patches.

“My goodness,” Jaskier murmured. “What is that?”

The mist receded to reveal the creature in all its slender, sky-scraping glory: it was akin to a horse with extremely long, lanky legs and an elongated neck almost eight feet in length. Along the back of that elongated neck was an erect, short mane that was light brown in color. It swung its three-foot-long tail from side to side, swiping the air with the long, black tuft of hair at the tip.

Standing at full height in his boots, the top of Geralt’s head scarcely reached the creature’s underside. A single kick from those lanky, hoofed legs could probably decapitate him.

He had no clue what the creature was, or what it was capable of doing to them.

But Szymon was—giggling in excitement at it. Giggling and pointing at it with a wide grin, his bottom front teeth gleaming in the sunshine.

“Zeeraff!”

In unison, Geralt and Jaskier gazed down at their cheerful baby boy, then gazed up at the—zeeraff?

It had no interest in solving the mystery of its own name. It was far more preoccupied with munching on the leaves near the top of a tree, using a purplish-black, prehensile tongue to lick up those leaves into its narrow mouth.

“Is that its name, darling, hm?” Jaskier asked, catching Szymon’s bright gaze with his own. “Is it a _zeeraff?_ ”

“Zeeraff,” Szymon blurted out again.

Jaskier chuckled, then glanced up at the creature with a smile and crinkled eyes sparkling with awe.

“It’s lovely,” Jaskier murmured.

Geralt’s shoulders slumped with relief. Whatever this zeeraff was, it was a plant-eater. It meant them no harm.

But where did it come from? How did it just appear out of nowhere?

And how did his baby boy know its name?

He rested his hand on Szymon’s back, feeling the languid, steady beat of his son’s heart under his palm. He pulled Jaskier back with his other hand when Jaskier slowly reached out for one of the creature’s legs.

“Don’t,” he said, holding onto the hem of Jaskier’s doublet. “You might spook it.”

It seemed oblivious to their presence. It continued to devour leaves from a tree that, now that Geralt was scrutinizing said tree, wasn’t an alder or a beech or an oak. It was unlike any he’d seen before across the Continent.

Where did the _tree_ come from?

Were they still in Caed Myrkvid?

Geralt grasped Jaskier’s right hand in his left once more. Jaskier didn’t protest when they resumed their stroll down the soil path, leaving the remarkable creature behind. Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. When he glanced over his shoulder, the mist had returned and enveloped the space where the unusual tree and creature had stood. There was no sign of either, as if they had never existed.

Was the creature real? Or had it been an illusion?

The cool, swirling mist gave him no answers, and neither did the forest. Jaskier’s fingers were intertwined with his. Their baby son was propped upright on Jaskier’s chest, his little body turned at the waist so he could gaze forward with those beautiful amber-and-blue eyes.

“What was that animal, Geralt? Is it really called a zeeraff?”

Jaskier’s voice was low and quiet with wonderment.

Geralt replied, “I don’t know.”

“You’ve never encountered it before, then?”

“I didn’t see it when I met the tree god for the first time.” Geralt shook his head and murmured, “But, it’d been so dark and misty that night. And I—wasn’t really paying much attention to my surroundings then.”

Jaskier gave his hand a long, tight squeeze, then drawled, “I _am_ a rather fetching distraction, aren’t I?”

Geralt turned his head to squint at his rascally mate. He couldn’t help but allow his lips to curve up with an amalgam of crotchetiness and love at the smug smile that graced Jaskier’s still youthful face.

By Geralt’s estimation, ten minutes of their serene stroll passed before Szymon was pointing upward again towards the mist, letting out a soft squeak of curiosity. They kept on walking. Jaskier cuddled their baby with both arms. Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s lower back, scanning their surroundings with keen eyes.

The trees were gone. Only the mist remained.

“Is it just me,” Jaskier said, “or is it getting colder?”

It was indeed getting colder. Geralt could feel the temperature drop, although not by much. He honed his sight on the massive shadows that weaved in and out of the mist. Gigantic creatures were lumbering alongside the path, flanking them. He couldn’t determine what the creatures were. Some of them were little more than two feet taller than him, but many were twice his height or more, and with each ponderous step they took, the ground trembled.

The mist receded like a wave from the beach, from both sides of the path. Jaskier’s gasp of surprise was louder this time. Geralt’s lower jaw also sagged, and he was at a loss for words as he stared up at the furry, gargantuan creature nearest to them that plodded across snow-coated ground.

The first parts of the creature Geralt noticed were its incredibly long and curved tusks. He estimated them to be at least twelve feet in length. It was a four-legged animal covered in dense, red-brown fur that was glossy, and it had a domed head, a large hump at the shoulders, and a sloping back that ended in a short tail of coarse hair. It had small ears that flapped like wings. The strangest part of it, however, was its nose, a very elongated and prehensile proboscis that curved into a sinuous shape when it was lifted high up in the air.

Szymon laughed with glee at the low, trumpeting sound it produced through its nose.

“Geralt, have you ever seen such a creature in your life?”

Geralt halted in his tracks to stand beside Jaskier who was staring up at the creature with wide, childlike eyes. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier and their baby son. Those tusks were formidable weapons: with a swing of that domed head, he could imagine this animal casually wiping the ground with a platoon of terrified soldiers.

But Szymon was smiling and flailing his chubby arms with exhilaration. Szymon wasn’t afraid at all of this creature and its herd that flanked them.

Szymon pointed at it and exclaimed, “Mamooh!”

It lumbered to a stop, then slowly turned its massive head towards them. It gazed down at them with a round, light brown eye that seemed almost amber in the sunlight. It regarded them with an intelligent gleam, and when it locked gazes with Geralt, he knew somehow that it was a creature of complex emotions and thoughts.

Szymon exclaimed that odd word again, now pointing at something near the front legs of the gargantuan, tusked creature.

“Oh!” Jaskier said, breaking into a broad, enchanted smile. “Hello.”

Szymon was pointing at a much smaller, tusk-less version of the creature, no taller than four feet, and also covered in dense, red-brown fur. It stared at them for a few seconds with large, light brown eyes. Then, with its bizarre nose swinging from side to side, it crossed the boundary of the path and approached them on chubby, short legs, without an iota of fear.

It was a baby. Just a happy, intrigued baby, tottering up to them, prodding at them with the flexible tip of its long nose.

“Hello,” Jaskier said, chuckling when it snuffled at his lower jaw and neck. “Hello, you cute, little thing.”

Szymon burbled as he grabbed at the baby creature’s limber nose. He shrieked with laughter when it snuffled his cheeks and then blew out a noisy huff of air through its nose. The sound of his baby son’s jolly laughter brought an affectionate smile to Geralt’s face, and he petted the admittedly endearing creature on its small, domed head. His eyebrows arched up at the pieces of ice his fingers grazed in the cold, red-brown fur.

What _was_ this creature? Where did it come from?

More importantly, why were they seeing these fascinating, unknown creatures now?

“I don’t know what it is,” he said to Jaskier, stroking the young creature’s head a few more times. He gently pushed away the creature’s wriggling nose from his leather satchel full of tasty food and fresh water. “I’ve never seen it before. Not even in Vesemir’s bestiary collections.”

“It’s so _cute_ ,” Jaskier cooed. He also petted its head, then its small, furry ears. “Can we bring it home?”

It wasn’t Geralt who answered the question, but the baby’s father that had stood patiently at the edge of the path, observing their interactions. It let out a low rumble at its inquisitive child, beckoning it to return to its side.

Geralt, Jaskier, and their own baby watched the cute creature scamper back to its father. The gargantuan, tusked creature used its long nose to caress its baby’s head and back. It was a gesture that Geralt empathized with in a wholehearted way he wouldn’t have a mere year ago.

Wherever this furry, gargantuan, tusked creature had come from, wherever it was going with its herd, he knew somehow, without any doubt, that he would never see the likes of them again. That no one else on the Continent, or in this whole world, had or would ever have the privilege of beholding them like he, Jaskier, and their baby son did.

He was beginning to understand what was happening here.

He was right to have listened to that peculiar, tugging sensation deep in his heart.

“Bye bye, cute baby,” Jaskier said, grasping one of Szymon’s plump arms and waving it from side to side in farewell. “Bye bye, big daddy.”

The mist enveloped the herd, whisking them away to wherever it was they lived. Geralt pressed his hand to Jaskier’s lower back, and they resumed walking, without an iota of fear too. He knew now that nothing would harm him and his family here. They were safe. They always had been, from the moment they’d stepped through Yennefer’s portal.

The forest didn’t return. The mist lingered for minutes more, then gradually billowed away like curtains being drawn to the side. In its place were towering, undulating walls flanking the path that reminded Geralt of the ripples of the sea surface, dark blue and transparent, windows to another world.

He sauntered up to the wall on the right side, raising his right hand towards it. He pressed his hand flat on it—and gasped when his hand came away cold and wet. His eyes widened after he sniffed at his palm.

The undulating, transparent walls truly were of water. Salty water, smelling exactly like the sea.

“Geralt, _look!_ ”

Geralt swiveled around to face Jaskier. Once again, he was struck speechless, his lips parting in silent awe, his eyes widening at the colossal creature that swam into view, parallel to the path.

It was some sort of shark, but unlike any shark he’d seen before in the wet markets of various seaside cities. Those sharks were typically three feet in length or shorter. This shark had to be at least forty feet in length, with a wide mouth at the front of its flat head that yawned open to reveal row upon row of minuscule teeth. It had small eyes near the tips of its mouth, and a pair of five large gills. It had a white belly, but dark grey skin patterned with white spots and stripes. Its huge tail swished from side to side as it swam through the waters.

Geralt ambled back to Jaskier’s side, wrapping his arm around his enraptured mate’s lower back. To his amusement, Jaskier and their baby boy had identical expressions, their eyes and mouth open wide with innocent delight, their cheeks flushed. Szymon pointed at the colossal creature and squealed.

“I don’t know what it is, sweetheart,” Jaskier murmured. “It’s spectacular, isn’t it?”

The three of them turned their heads in unison to watch the magnificent animal swim languorously past them. Geralt knew that if he were to plunge his arm into the wall of water, he would be able to touch the creature’s wide fin. He would be dipping his arm into the sea itself.

It was probably best that he hadn’t done so, for smaller, graceful creatures that he was familiar with swam into view behind the enormous shark. They swooped and soared in the blue, cold vastness, their human-like upper bodies pale and sinewy in comparison to their iridescent-scaled, finned lower halves. They playfully darted around the colossal shark, chasing each other, stroking the shark’s back with webbed fingers.

“By the gods,” Jaskier breathed. “Those are mermaids, aren’t they? And mermen!”

Geralt’s lips quirked up. One day, he might tell Jaskier about his _interesting_ experience with a mermaid in Skellige decades ago, but he had a hunch that Eskel was going to beat him to it.

“They’re much more intelligent than people think,” Geralt murmured, gazing up at the mermaid that was swimming towards them. “They’re often confused for sirens, but sirens have large wings while merpeople never do.”

The mermaid floated in the water in front of them, gazing back at them with large, light yellow eyes. Her long, celadon-green hair flowed out from her head like a living crown. Her scales were a pleasing blend of green and gold shades that glittered, and her delicate, filigree fins moved in hypnotizing ripples.

Szymon smiled up at her and waved at her. She in turn gyrated in place, flaunting her splendid tail, then swam in a wide circle. Szymon giggled with delight, waving both hands. This time, she floated upside down in front of them, and she smiled at Szymon, waving a slender hand at him.

It was yet another marvelous vision that Geralt knew no one else in this world would ever have the privilege of beholding, for the tree god would not show just anyone such astounding spectacles.

The tree god was here.

The tree god knew that he, Jaskier, and their baby boy were here.

And these astounding spectacles were its magnanimous gifts of welcome for them.

He turned his head to gaze at Jaskier. Jaskier’s eyes were glistening, and his long, pale neck bobbed with a hard swallow, but those dark pink lips that Geralt would never tire of kissing were curled in a wonderstruck smile. Jaskier must have reached the same conclusion he had, and he was certain that, right now, Jaskier was memorizing every moment of this event so he could write a plethora of songs later, with the benefit of all the details being accurate. His mate was going to become an even more applauded bard in the years to come.

The three of them watched the mermaid swim away to be with her pod. The merfolk accompanied the enormous shark into uncharted waters, into a realm where no man could go on his own power—and perhaps, that was also probably for the best. In their wake, a stupendous shoal of silvery fish billowed through the blue water on both sides of the path, eliciting another gasp from Jaskier and babbling from Szymon.

When Szymon pointed that plump, tiny finger once more down the path, when the mist returned like curtains drawing shut over the undulating walls of the sea, Geralt knew that the magical extravaganza was over.

It was time to pay their respects to the one who had made it possible.

As they walked, Jaskier gripped his left hand tight, and he squeezed Jaskier’s hand in return. He hoisted the strap of his leather satchel higher up his shoulder. Jaskier’s grip tightened even more when the mist swirled onto the path and enveloped them like a cool, lustrous blanket. He calmly walked ahead, for this was what he’d experienced before meeting the tree god for the first time.

The soil beneath their feet began to crunch as if they were treading fresh grass instead.

The chirrups and warbles of birds all around them greeted them in an euphonious symphony unlike anything Geralt had ever heard. The birds sounded exultant. The birds seemed overjoyed with their presence.

He felt a cool breeze across his face, and it felt more alive than ever, brushing his cheek and the hair above his temple. He smelled nectar and loam. He heard the rustle of leaves on gnarled branches so high up that they touched the stars and peeked into the heavens.

The mist parted for them, as if it was blown away by a gust of breath from a tremendous mouth.

The birds fell into a deferential silence. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to break it even if he’d wished to, for his throat had closed up, his chest ached not with pain, and his eyes stung not from the sunlight.

In the golden beams that bathed it, the ancient tree god was a gentle, glowing oak giant whose height was incalculable. Its trunk was at least a hundred feet in circumference. Many of its gnarled, leaf-laden branches were hundreds of feet in length, coated in green, soft moss, stretching and forking outward in all directions from its prodigious trunk as a sheltering canopy for all gathered into its embrace. Its roots were as breathtaking in length and thickness, diving into the grassy ground and reemerging like the humped backs of gargantuan sea creatures breaching the combers.

Geralt could sense the overwhelming waves of fierce power that emanated from the tree god. They washed over him, but they did not hurt him and he wasn’t afraid. It had called him and Jaskier and their baby boy here to its side. It wanted them to be here.

He blinked hard. He turned his head to look at Jaskier and their son, and saw the rivulets that trickled down from Jaskier’s wide, reverent eyes. Jaskier didn’t seem to realize he was weeping while he stared at the tree god. Szymon was gazing at his daddy, touching one of those wet cheeks with those tiny fingers, wiping away a rolling tear. The touch snapped Jaskier out of his beatified trance. Jaskier released Geralt’s left hand.

“Oh,” Jaskier murmured, touching his own cheeks, then glancing down at his wet fingertips.

Geralt didn’t know what expression he had on his own face, but when Jaskier glanced at him, Jaskier’s whole face turned tender. Jaskier grasped his hand once more.

Radiant flowers of all colors sprung forth from the ground near their feet as they approached the tree god. A vast field of those flowers bloomed behind them, spreading out in swelling tides to the horizon of a blue, cloudless sky.

They stopped for a few minutes after Szymon pointed down at a red, large-petaled flower with green, sleek leaves. Geralt bent down to pluck it, and to their amazement, a fresh one sprouted from the broken stem in seconds, blossoming before their eyes. With a fond smile, Jaskier tucked the plucked flower behind Szymon’s little ear. Szymon petted the flower and smiled back.

Geralt gave Jaskier a mock glower when his scamp of a human mate eyed the other flowers surrounding them and then aimed a meaningful look at him.

“Jaskier, no,” he growled.

Jaskier pouted at him and grumbled, “Why not? You looked so _adorable_ with the buttercups in your hair!”

Their baby son saved his arse from becoming a flower display on two muscular legs by squealing in anticipation and pointing at the tree god. He quickly tugged Jaskier forward and ignored Jaskier’s twitching lips.

The tree god was all the more awe-inspiring up close: now he could see shimmering lines and shapes whirl all over the tree god’s rugged outer bark, a primeval language that was far beyond his ken and perhaps even of the most enlightened mages in the world. The shimmering lines and shapes slowed in their mesmerizing dance the nearer Geralt and Jaskier walked, as if they were alive, observing their imminent advance with the piqued curiosity of eternally young souls.

Szymon pointed at a nearby moss-coated root that was as thick as a fallen tree trunk. More flowers sprouted forth from the ground as Geralt and Jaskier sauntered up to the root. Geralt remained standing while Jaskier sat on a dense layer of green moss shaped almost like a rectangular bench. Geralt lowered the leather satchel to the grass, and stared at the moss.

Somehow, he knew the spot next to Jaskier was the spot he had sat on that fateful night. The very spot where the tree god had shown him that momentous glimpse of the future. Of his miraculous child he hadn’t known he could be blessed to have.

He didn’t sit.

Instead, he tottered up to the monumental trunk of the ancient tree god. He raised a trembling hand to the coarse bark and rested it on those shimmering lines and shapes. They danced and flickered around his hand as if he’d pressed his hand on the surface of a placid lake and sent ripples across it.

He didn’t understand what they were, or what they were saying, if they were attempting to communicate with him. He didn’t know if the tree god was attempting to speak to him but he could not hear it. If a sorceress as powerful as Yennefer had struggled so much just to initiate a line of communication with it, how did he—a mere witcher with scarcely any magic—hope to speak to it, to thank it?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know how a puny, rough-hewn creature like him could possibly do or say anything worthy of an ancient tree god that could create life from nothing except its magic.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the tree god’s trunk. He shut his eyes. He breathed. He smelled nectar and loam again, and the scents comforted him. Even as he felt so infinitesimal, so humbled, he was also utterly safe and at a profound peace.

He was—truly happy.

He stepped back from the tree god. He turned around, and saw Jaskier and Szymon gazing at him with tranquil expressions, their cheeks pressed together from Jaskier cuddling their baby son tight with both arms. Sunlight spilled between the verdant leaves of the tree god’s branches upon them, flecking Jaskier’s dark, thick hair with brilliant patches of gold. The red flower tucked behind Szymon’s little ear was a dazzling flash next to his short, white hair.

There were only four words that Geralt’s heart could conjure up as he gazed at his beloved mate and their extraordinary child, that might be worthy in any way of the tree god safeguarding them.

_Thank you. For everything._

That cool breeze caressed his face once more—but this time, he recognized it. This time, he finally understood why he hadn’t recognized it for what it was, what it had always been, until now.

It was a gentle, immense hand stroking his face, his hair, the back of his head.

It was a touch that he had never known in his distant past, despite being born of a woman who would later abandon him at the foot of Kaer Morhen.

It was the touch of a loving mother.

He stared on with stinging eyes at Jaskier who was now murmuring to Szymon, rubbing the tips of their noses together and making their contented baby giggle. Yennefer had been mistaken when she’d told him and Jaskier that the tree god was in love with him—it was true, but not in the way she’d assumed. The tree god was in love with him the way a parent was in love with their child, chastely, unconditionally. He saw that love in action right now, while Jaskier gazed at their baby boy with such crinkled, warm eyes, as if their baby made everything worthwhile simply by existing.

The tree god had never needed a reason, or a tribute from him, to love him.

His existence was enough.

He sauntered back to Jaskier’s side on shaky legs, silently reeling from the magnitude of that unequivocal fact. He sat on the green moss coating the massive root. It was as pliant and welcoming as he remembered it, like a bed tended with care for a cherished one. Jaskier leaned against him, pressing the lengths of their upper arms together, and he touched his temple to Jaskier’s. They gazed with crinkled eyes at Szymon staring up at the tree god, waving those chubby arms around while babbling yet again in that indecipherable baby language.

Geralt’s lips quirked up. Well, if he couldn’t think of something worthy to say, perhaps his son could.

“What are you saying to the big, old tree, hm?” Jaskier asked, chuckling when Szymon babbled some more.

Szymon kept staring up at the tree god with unblinking, amber-and-blue eyes. He became quiet for a while, his head angled to one side. Geralt stared at his son’s sweet face. Was Szymon studying the shimmering, whirling lines and shapes on the bark? Or was Szymon actually listening to something?

Szymon started babbling again, in an exuberant fashion, opening and closing his plump hands.

And against Geralt’s chest, on top of his doublet, his wolf medallion vibrated. It had been vibrating for some time.

Geralt blinked. He sat up. His smile wavered, but the warmth in his crinkled eyes remained. He stared on at his speaking son—and gradually, his smile steadied into a closed-lipped, gratified one.

“Jaskier,” he murmured.

Jaskier turned that head of dark, thick hair to glance at him. “Yeah?”

“He’s talking to the tree god,” he said, his voice hushed with amazement.

Jaskier glanced at Szymon, then at him again with wide eyes of surprise. Then Jaskier stared at their babbling baby with those wide eyes, his mouth falling open.

“Is he—” Jaskier’s head whipped from side to side, so fast was he glancing between the two of them. “Is he really—” Jaskier stared again at Szymon during another bout of attentive silence. “He said Dadda and Tata a few times, didn’t he? You heard that, yes?”

Those words had indeed been interspersed throughout their son’s enigmatic chatter to the tree god. What were the two magical beings conversing about? It certainly involved him and Jaskier in some manner.

“What did the big, old tree say?” Jaskier stroked Szymon’s rosy cheek with a forefinger, then raised one of Szymon’s chubby hands to his lips to kiss it. “What are you two chatting about, sweetheart, hm?”

Szymon gazed at Jaskier with large, solemn eyes. Jaskier gazed back, his expression soft and vulnerable. Their little hero could do anything to his Dadda in this moment, and his Dadda would let him, and his Tata would just as likely let him do the same to him. But Geralt knew their son would never hurt them.

Szymon pressed a small hand to Jaskier’s smooth cheek.

“Dadda,” he murmured.

Then Szymon glanced at Geralt, and Geralt had the strongest feeling that his son wasn’t just gazing at him, but gazing into him as well. He returned the unblinking, warm stare, his lips quirking up once more when Szymon murmured, “Tata.”

He would never tire of hearing his beloved child calling him that, even if he lived for many centuries more.

Szymon broke their eye contact to gaze up at the tree god again, his expression still so solemn, so sagacious, for an eleven-month-old baby.

“Dadda, Tata,” Szymon said clearly. “Yeh.”

Geralt’s eyes widened. While Szymon had mastered saying “no”, he still found it challenging to say “yes”, and he would always pronounce it as “yeh”. Yennefer liked to claim that he was actually saying her name, which made for some amusing situations whenever Yennefer tried to whisk him away from Jaskier by using that excuse.

What did Szymon say yes to, just now?

What did his baby boy ask of the tree god—

Geralt’s chain of thoughts shattered when he glanced at Jaskier. Jaskier’s blue eyes were glowing. They flashed bright once, and then Jaskier shuddered visibly from head to toe, letting out a comical yelp. Szymon laughed, secure in Jaskier’s arms around him. Geralt blinked with confusion, unsure of what he’d witnessed. He’d felt _something_ roll through Jaskier’s whole body like a crashing wave of the sea—but what?

Jaskier didn’t seem to realize anything had happened to him. Jaskier was chuckling with their baby, his blue eyes no longer glowing.

Geralt felt that gentle, immense hand upon his head again.

He shut his eyes, just for a moment.

When he opened them, he was no longer sitting on that massive, moss-coated root next to Jaskier and their baby boy.

He was—standing on a beach. The sun was beginning to set in the distant horizon, and the almost cloudless sky was an impressive commingling of gold, purple, and orange shades. He knew somehow, deep within his chest, that this was the same beach upon which he’d seen Jaskier lifting up their little, sweet baby boy in that knitted, star-shaped suit. That this was the same beach, centuries into the future from that time.

A tall, burly man with long white hair was standing farther down the beach, his bare feet planted in wet sand while the sea licked at his ankles. The man’s hair was tied in a half-up, half-down ponytail style, exactly like his, and he was dressed in a white linen shirt with long sleeves rolled up to the elbows, black trousers rolled half-way up the shins. The man’s muscular arms were relaxed at his sides.

Geralt blinked, and he was abruptly standing alongside that man, although he didn’t sense the wet sand under his feet or the waves of the sea. He stared at the man’s bearded face that was creased with age. At the numerous laugh lines that surrounded gleaming amber eyes. At that familiar cleft at the tip of an equally familiar nose. Under that dense, trimmed beard, he was certain that the man’s firm chin would also have a cleft in it.

He knew this glad, old man very well.

He was gazing at himself.

Another blink, and he was the one gazing out at the ever-heaving sea, in that centuries-old, scarred albeit robust body. He was safe and sound here. He was at utter peace. He was home, and he was truly happy.

“Oh, _there_ he is! Look at him, he doesn’t sit in a corner to brood anymore, now he has to brood under a dramatic sunset on a romantic beach.”

Geralt swiveled in the direction of that so very familiar voice. That mellifluous voice that sang about him across the Continent, that murmured even sweeter words of endearment into his ear in the night, that warbled for him with such lust whenever they made love.

Jaskier’s voice.

“Geralt, didn’t you hear us calling for you from the house?”

Jaskier was ambling barefoot down the extensive length of the beach towards him, accompanied by a white-haired colossus of a man. Jaskier was dressed in a teal shirt that was untied at the collar, exposing that hirsute, lean chest. The shirt was tucked into brown trousers rolled up to the knees. The other man was dressed in an embroidered burgundy shirt with its sleeves rolled up to brawny upper arms, and dark brown trousers also rolled up to the knees.

Geralt couldn’t stop staring at Jaskier. At Jaskier’s face that was less creased with age than his. At the laugh lines that crinkled those large blue eyes still shining so beautiful in the sunlight. At the swaths of grey and white hair at the temples and above the ears, topped by medium-length hair still so dark and thick.

He could feel his entire face crinkling with mirth at the sight of Jaskier halting and then striking that familiar arms-akimbo pose. It was a pose that was probably baked into Jaskier’s very bones by now. It was still amusing to him after all these—centuries.

Centuries?

Geralt’s eyes slowly widened as he stared on at Jaskier who was now grumbling to that colossus of a man standing next to him. If he was centuries old at this point in time, and Jaskier was still here with him, still appearing relatively young and healthy, that meant—

His breath hitched deep in his lungs, and something nestled between them throbbed with an exquisite pain that wasn’t pain at all. His throat seized with emotion. His eyes burned, even as the cool waters of the sea lapped at his feet.

_So, you had better stick around for the next thirty years, you crabby boor._

_No._

_Why not, hm?_

_Thirty years is but a quick blink of the eye to me, my love. At the very least—sixty years._

Sixty years: that was the time Jaskier had promised to him for their future together. Sixty years was but a quick blink of the eye to him, too, for a witcher could live at least three centuries and more, as Vesemir had proven.

But he knew what the tree god had done to Jaskier, and why it was showing him this precious glimpse of the future.

He knew what his baby son had said yes to, now.

His baby son—who was, at this majestic point in time, the white-haired colossus of a man standing next to Jaskier.

Szymon was at least seven feet tall barefoot, towering over Jaskier in a pale, sinewy body. His long, white hair was tied in a loose braid and slung over a broad shoulder. His bare forearms and lower legs were corded with solid muscles that belonged to a seasoned warrior. If Geralt were to grasp his son’s considerable hands, he would feel the calluses from the regular handling of mighty swords.

His son’s facial features were an amalgam of his and Jaskier’s: those large, amber-and-blue eyes were shaped like his but long-lashed like Jaskier’s. The eyebrows above them were grey like his but thick like Jaskier’s. That well-proportioned nose was a fusion of theirs, lacking the cleft at the tip that his own nose had. The guileless smile that arched up dark pink lips so much like his was so much like Jaskier’s. The firm chin under that smile also lacked the cleft that his own chin had.

It took him a while to realize that his son also did not look a day over the age of twenty-five, despite the passing of centuries. That was impossible even for a witcher. Which meant Szymon was either using magic to maintain his youthful appearance like Yennefer did, or his unique creation by the ancient tree god’s magic had rendered him—immortal.

“Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes burned wetter as he swallowed hard, as he stared at the precious embodiment of the very best of him and Jaskier. At the two most important people in his prolonged existence. Jaskier was going to live for centuries, by his side. Their son was also going to live for centuries, perhaps forever.

He would never be alone again.

“Geralt?”

He blinked hard, twice, clearing his blurry vision. He stared at Szymon—who was an eleven-month-old baby in a knitted, dandelion-yellow sweater and trousers, and itty-bitty blue socks, a red flower tucked behind his ear. He stared at Jaskier, whose face had few wrinkles, whose medium-length hair was completely dark save for a few strands of white hair here and there.

Jaskier, his beloved mate.

His beloved, fragile human mate, who was not so fragile anymore.

“You’re starting to scare me a little, my curmudgeonly beauty,” Jaskier murmured, brushing the back of callused, slender fingers down his cheek. “Are you all right?”

Geralt gazed at their calm baby boy again. Into those large, amber-and-blue eyes that saw so much, more than he or Jaskier or any mortal in the world ever would. Szymon, still so young and dependent on them, so soft and sweet, gave him a small smile that bunched up those rosy, round cheeks. His own lips curled up into a similar smile, a knowing and hopeful smile.

“Yes, everything is all right,” he rasped, and it was true.

In due time, he would tell Jaskier what had occurred. It would probably be in their bedroom in the manor, and it would be a quiet affair, until the significance of Szymon’s wish sank in for Jaskier. Jaskier was going to burst into tears of elation. Their baby boy was probably going to burst into tears too, so empathetically bonded as he was to his daddy.

And he—well, he could never bear to witness his loved ones crying for long without clasping them in his arms and murmuring reassurances to them.

He was learning that one did not have be cold and rigid like sharpened steel to survive. That one could be warm and tender like a flower under the sun, and not only live, but thrive in sustaining heat and blossoming splendor.

How was he ever going to show his gratitude to the tree god for this gift, on top of all the others?

“What is it, sweetheart? What’s that you’re looking at?”

Szymon was staring up at the high, lush branches of the tree god. He pointed up with that plump, tiny forefinger at—whatever it was, Geralt couldn’t see it even with his heightened witcher sight. With their heads tilted back, Geralt and Jaskier also stared up at the branches, their foreheads furrowed in mild puzzlement.

Was Szymon looking at the numerous multi-colored, riotously feathered birds perched on the branches? Or perhaps the serrated leaves, or the slim, cylindrical flowers?

Szymon waved his arms and squealed with excitement. Geralt lowered then angled his head to one side, squinting while he focused his heightened hearing up towards the branches. The leaves above were rustling noisily, louder and louder. Something heavy was plummeting through them, knocking into branches and bouncing off them, plummeting down and down and _down towards them_ —

Geralt grabbed Jaskier and Szymon with both arms and hugged them close, using his substantial body as a shield. Jaskier instinctively hugged their baby boy tight and hunched around him, blue eyes round with alarm, youthful features contorted into a humorous face.

“Geralt, what’s happening,” Jaskier squeaked, “what’s going on?”

Geralt opened his mouth to speak.

Szymon wriggled in Jaskier’s snug embrace, babbling with even more excitement.

And with an explosion of green, serrated leaves high above that showered them, the mysterious, weighty object hurtled down to the ground, landing with a resounding thud eight feet in front of them. Jaskier let out a high-pitched screech of shock. Szymon squealed and kicked his chubby legs. Geralt’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.

The weighty object that was not so mysterious anymore under the sunshine bounced towards them from the impact. It rolled across the grass to a stop three feet in front of them.

Geralt and Jaskier stared with deadpan faces at the dark brown, oblong-shaped nut and its light grey, warty-scaled cup. Szymon squirmed in Jaskier’s arms until he was also facing the nut on the ground, then stared at it too. It was missing a stalk. It was one-and-a-half feet in length.

“That—” Jaskier pointed a forefinger at it, his eyes exaggeratedly wide. “Is a really, _really_ big acorn.”

Geralt stood up and crossed the short distance to the behemoth of an acorn. He knelt down to pick it up with both hands. It was the biggest acorn he’d seen yet in his century of life. It was hefty with seed.

It was hefty with the seed of an ancient tree god.

He slowly stood up, cradling the acorn in his hands, staring down at it for several seconds. Then he glanced at Jaskier and their baby son, his lips quirking up in a tiny smile that grew in tandem with Jaskier’s delighted one.

Geralt tilted his head back, glanced up at the tree god, and asked, “Do you want me to plant this somewhere else for you? Is that how you want me to show you my thanks?”

The tree god didn’t answer him. Szymon did, calling for him with an enthusiastic, “Tata!”

He returned to sit beside Jaskier on the green moss of the tree god’s root, turning the giant acorn this way and that for Szymon to inspect it. Szymon stroked its smooth, dark brown surface with that gentle, small hand.

“Baby,” Szymon blurted out, smiling down at the acorn.

Geralt and Jaskier shared a crinkled-eyed glance. Then they gazed at their son, at their miraculous child who could move things with his magic, chat with ancient gods, and bask in the simple grace of simple things.

“I think that’s a yes,” Jaskier murmured, planting a kiss on a delicate crown of short, white hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't already guessed, the creatures they saw were a [giraffe](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giraffe), a herd of [woolly mammoths](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Woolly_mammoth), and a [whale shark](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whale_shark). Ordinary to us, perhaps, but not to them!
> 
> And remember when Jaskier made that "dying" wish in chapter 10? 
> 
> _I love you, Geralt of Rivia. I wish I could be with you for all of your life, and beyond._
> 
> That's what the tree god talked to Szymon about in their enigmatic conversation. The tree god had heard Jaskier's wish, but waited until Geralt, Jaskier, and their baby boy were physically present before asking Szymon whether he wanted this too--and Szymon said yes.
> 
> As for the behemoth of an acorn, I'm unsure whether I'll write this as a future coda or not, so I'll tell ya what happens to it: Geralt gives it to Yennefer as a gift for taking care of pregnant!Jaskier and keeping him and their baby safe from the war. Yennefer plants the acorn in the gardens behind her manor. After a century, it grows into a humongous oak tree, and gains sentience, becoming a baby tree god. In gratitude for her taking care of it, it will grant her one wish. I'll leave it to you to imagine what that wish is. 
> 
> ________________________________
> 
> In the next coda: Remember in chapter 8, when Geralt vowed to fuck Jaskier against the wall, and on the floor, and in the bathtub, and make Jaskier come without touching himself? Yeah.


	18. Art: "Advanced Intimacy"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it was just a matter of time until I drew our favorite idiots in love doing the, uh, vertical tango. 😈 I think I'm getting the hang of drawing Geralt and Jaskier. I'm planning to create a series of illustrations in this style--so look forward to more intimate Geraskier art continuing this scene. 
> 
> Technical info: Done from start to finish in Clip Studio Paint Pro, with image reference from a very hot GIF I discovered on Tumblr long before the Tumblr Exodus. I wish I knew what movie it came from.
> 
> Oh! I'll be posting more Geraskier art (that aren't related to my fics) on my Twitter: [@giddytf2](https://twitter.com/giddytf2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't repost. Thank you!


	19. Art: "Advanced Intimacy, deinde"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third time drawing the fellas, and I really like how they both turned out in this piece, especially Jaskier.
> 
> Yes, Geralt--Jaskier is very delicious. 😈
> 
> Technical info: Done from start to finish in Clip Studio Paint Pro, with image reference from another very hot GIF I discovered on Tumblr long before the Tumblr Exodus.
> 
> Do y'all think I should put my Geraskier fan art under a new "story" instead of updating this story with them? There will be quite a few more illustrations to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't repost the art. Thank you!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Breaking of the Shell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490438) by [giddytf2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2)




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